The Love You Leave Behind
by gloriouscacophony
Summary: Sometime in the 1980s, quiet, conflicted Aziraphale convinces his father Gabriel to let him study abroad for a year. His new home is a whirlwind of new experiences...including a punk show where he meets Crowley, a boy who's bad news in leather pants. But as they get to know each other, they find that each is more than he seems and, sometimes, love is ineffable.
1. Far from home

When the plane landed, Aziraphale unclenched his hand from the armrest and breathed a huff of relief. He reminded himself for the thousandth time since he'd gotten on the plane back that he was fine, that people flew all the time (_It wasn't the flying, he loved flying, but it was the _landing_ that sent his stomach into knots and convulsions_) and survived just fine. He felt in the pocket of his chinos for the cross charm that his older brother had stuffed into his hand before the taxi had arrived to take him to the airport. He held it tightly, and its presence calmed him.

Once the plane had pulled up to the gate and stopped, he waited as patiently as possible for the doors to open and the steps on either end to be let down. When he made to the rear door and climbed down gingerly, the fresh air whisked the stale, smoky air from his wasn't so bad.

The terminal was a different story. Dozens of people were crowded at the seating area inside, peering at the passengers as they entered the terminal and holding up signs calling for people who weren't him. He pushed through, hoisting his rucksack higher on his shoulder as he adjusted his other duffel. Thankfully, his other things had already been delivered to the campus post office, where he could pick them up in a few days. In the meantime, he had the essentials: a few crisp white shirts, his favorite dark red tie and navy vest, the baggy tan sweater with felt elbow patches that had been his ever since Luke had gotten tired of it (and which hid his own slight tummy pudge wonderfully),, toiletries, and several leatherbound books, including a brand-new Bible from his father.

He pressed through the crowd clustered near the terminal's entrance, more family waiting for new arrivals from overseas and yawning passengers waiting for checked baggage at the carousels. Outside, the sounds of honking cars and noise from the nearby city center froze him for a moment. His collar seemed remarkably tight all of a sudden as he realized he had no idea how to get a taxi. The one that had picked him up yesterday at home (_Had it only been yesterday? Goodness.) _had shown up at the requested time after a phone call. Did he need to find a payphone? How much would a call cost here?

But after a moment of panicked observation, he ran to the curb and threw an arm in the air and yelled, "Taxi!" like he'd seen in one of the few movies he'd gone to the theater to see and, as if by magic, a yellow car came screeching up beside him.

Soon they were on the highway, weaving around the traffic as they approached the downtown skyscrapers. He cracked a window and leaned out cautiously to stare up at the shining buildings, too entranced by their bright facades and sheer height to be terrified. For the first time in his life, he was truly away from home—thousands of miles away, in fact—and without his father or brothers and sisters or anyone from church or bible study. He still couldn't truly believe this wasn't a dream—that his father had not only allowed him to travel overseas for university but even paid for his ticket.

"_Father, I would like to discuss something with you, if you have a moment," he'd asked tentatively._

"_Aziraphale, my son! Aren't you supposed to be delivering meals with Sarah?," Gabriel had asked, violet eyes looking up from the ministry paperwork to study his youngest son._

"_We finished early, and I thought I'd see if you had time to hear a proposal about university next year...you see, I would like to do something a bit...unconventional."_

"_Unconventional?" His focus shifted fully to his son, concern furrowing his brow as a slight frown appeared._

"_Yes, well, you see...I've been giving my education a lot of thought and was thinking, wouldn't this be a great opportunity for me to find a way to continue giving back, but perhaps to a new community where sin is rampant and I could see the suffering of those poor souls who need God's love first-hand in the longer term, not just a mission trip—"_

_Gabriel had listened silently to his rambling until he'd gotten it all out. And to Aziraphale's surprise, he'd said yes. "I think it's a wonderful idea! There's no better den of sin and iniquity, and it would be an excellent way to augment your theological studies."_

_He'd stared, mouth agape, and then broken into a cherubic smile that stretched across his round face._

"Kid, this is your stop. You gonna get out?"

Aziraphale snapped back to the present and realized the taxi had come to a stop outside of a massive, columned brick building at the center of a large open field scattered with trees and an impressive limestone fountain.

"Oh, uh, yes!" He reached a hand to his wallet in his coat pocket and handed the man the fare, plus a generous tip, then grabbed his bags and headed around the fountain to the main hall's entrance.

Seeing the massive structure amidst the quad of brick lecture halls was surreal after only seeing the images in the glossy brochures he'd received by post. It looked almost exactly the same, except for the slight tinge of orange beginning to set into the leaves that predicted fall weather would soon arrive. In the meantime, though, the air was still warm, and he shivered at the burst of cold air that wrapped around him as he pushed into the building, juggling his bags.

There was a line of other students inside below a sign reading "GET YOUR ROOM KEY HERE", so he joined the end, dropping his bags with a sigh of relief. Straightening his jacket, and smoothing his shirt, he drew himself up and looked around at the other students in line. The fashions here were much the same as at home: tight leggings, blue jeans, baggy sweatshirts and t-shirts, some men and women sporting shorts that left very little leg to the imagination. The air reeked of hairspray, sweat, and bubblegum, but the line seemed to move fairly quickly.

When he reached the desk, the resident advisor ("Tammi", according to her paper name tag) asked, "Name?" in a bored tone, not looking up from her list.

"Aziraphale Thaddeus Fell."

The girl's head snapped up, her eyes looking him up and down. "That's...your name?"

"Um, yes?"

She snapped her gum, still eyeing him as she dug through the pile of packets at her table. "Here you go...Aziraphale. And your keys. There's a map of campus in there, but you're in building 4, Cranshaw. Go out the door you came in through, then turn right and go all the way down the sidewalk. It'll be the last building at the end of the path."

"Thank you very much," he said, grabbing his bags and hoisting them back up. As he began his journey to the dormitory, he continued to stare at his surroundings: the bright colors of his fellow students' clothes, the dank smell of something that wasn't cigarettes, the many buildings that created a maze across the vast campus, the honk of the shuttles announcing their departure to downtown, the far sides of campus, the mall.

He stopped for a moment to adjust his burden, wishing he had one of the carts that many incoming students and their families had brought with them. He could just see the hint of a steeple in the distance, belonging to the church that was adjacent to the school of theology. The sight heartened him, and he continued toward his dorm with a smile. This year would be a chance to discover his true self, his true purpose, to be tested and overcome adversity without the safety net of his close-knit family and church community. He might even face a bit of temptation before the year was finished—wouldn't that be an exciting development?

Two flights of stairs later, he arrived at his door to find it propped open with a skateboard. Inside was a long haired, tanned young man working on pinning up a Ramones poster above one of the beds. Half-unpacked boxes and bags littered the floor.

"Ah, hello there," Aziraphale said brightly, and the young man looked up.

"Hey man! You must be...Aziraphale? Am I saying that right?"

"Yes, I am—and yes, you are. Er, you did. Yes, that's me."

"Cool. I'm Brian. C'mon in, man, put your stuff down. Is that all you have?"

Aziraphale set down his bags, then realized all too late: His sheets and bedding were in the boxes that he wouldn't be able to pick up from the campus post office until the next day.

"I have parcels at the post office, but I fear I may have neglected to remember to bring bedding for tonight."

Brian stared at him for a moment, with much the same expression as Tammi the RA. "You're from abroad, right? Is that why you talk so weird?"

Aziraphale blushed. "Um, yes. I'm here for a year to study theology."

"Lemme guess, big uptight religious family?"

"Well, I don't know about _uptight_—"

Brian laughed, turning to dig through one of his boxes. "Hey man, no judgement here. I gotta lot of friends back home who go to church and everything. Not my scene, but you do you. And here," he said, throwing a wad of fabric to Aziraphale that turned out to be a sleeping bag. "You can borrow this until you get your stuff tomorrow. It's clean, my mom washed it before I left."

"Oh. Thank you," Aziraphale replied, spreading it out over his narrow mattress before setting his bags on top and beginning to unpack his few belongings. "I, er, hope my faith won't be a concern, I'd be happy to—"

"Nah, like I said, it's cool you're a church dork. People think I'm a loser for liking to skateboard still but whatever."

"I've never skateboarded before."

"Really?" Brian snorted. "Everybody I know used to when we were kids. Or ride bikes around, y'know."

"Oh, I do have a bicycle back at home! I used to ride it to do our door-to-door visits…"

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly: both finished unpacking, then sat chatting about the differences in teenage hobbies from their hometowns. Aziraphale beamed, happy that his roommate seemed like a decent fellow, even if he did seem to have done quite a bit of underage drinking that apparently wasn't considered illegal until the passage of a national drinking age law in the last year or so.

They went together to the first-night orientation, an overview of the campus facilities and codes of conduct that Aziraphale truly tried to follow. Next to him, Brian slouched in his seat, doodling on his jeans with a ballpoint pen and yawning occasionally.

When they were dismissed, they headed to the dining hall, where the many options offered a culinary temptation in the form of too many choices that smelled heavenly greasy and rich. Aziraphale stuck to a salad and a roast beef sandwich, while Brian loaded up a plate with an entire pizza's worth of slices, to be washed down with Coke.

"Hey, Heather!" he shouted through a mouthful of cheese at a girl with dark eyeliner smudged around her eyes and cherry-red dyed hair. The girl rolled her eyes but came over to sit beside him.

"'Ziraphale, this is Heather. We go way back."

"Hello, it's lovely to meet you. I'm Aziraphale Fell."

"Hey," she said with a smirk. "Brian bothering you? 'Cause I can kick his butt for you."

"Bothering me? Why, no, he's my roommate!"

She stared at him for a moment, then looked at Brian as she took a bite of cereal. "This guy for real? What a nerd. But, y'know, that's fine," she finished quickly at the slight downturn of Aziraphale's mouth. "No, really, you seem like you don't care what people think, and that's cool."

"I must confess, you're a bit confusing."

Heather cracked a real smile at his confession. "But isn't that more fun than being obvious and easy and nice?"

"She fancies herself a rebel, this one," Brian interjected, earning him a poke in the side from Heather. "But hey, 'Ziraphale, you came all the way here to do your own thing, so I'd say you're the one with the real rebel cred."

"Me, a rebel?" Aziraphale gaped at him for a moment.

Heather nodded. "That's pretty badass, he's right. Not a lot of people have the guts to wave 'bye to mom and dad and go thousands of miles away from home. My family's only a state away."

"Well, I...never thought of it like that. A rebel, my." He smiled and dug into his dinner with a fresh appetite.

When they finished eating, Brian invited him to hang out with him and Heather, but Aziraphale checked his watch and declined, yawning and doing the math to figure out what time it would be back at home.

Back at his room, he put his jacket away, sat at his desk, and dialed the many codes and numbers to reach home. Luke answered sleepily, and they chatted briefly before Gabriel took the receiver.

"Hello, son. Arrived all right, then?"

"Yes, father, I'll be picking up my things tomorrow, but I've met my new roommate, Brian, and his friend Heather. We ate dinner together. I may ask if he wants to join me for church tomorrow, it looks like there's a lovely little chapel across campus."

"Wonderful. I'm pleased you're settling in, and not getting into any trouble. As Corinthians says, 'But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of Him in every place'."

"Er, yes, I suppose," Aziraphale replied, thinking of Heather's nose ring and dyed hair and Brian's Ramones poster across the room.

They chatted for a few more minutes, not wanting to run up a high international calling bill on the dorm's account, then said their goodbyes, with Aziraphale promising to call home again in a few days to share how classes were going.

A quick shower and change into his favorite striped pajamas later, Aziraphale kneeled beside his bed, holding the small cross. _Lord, help me help others here. I want to make a real difference in someone's life. Show me a path and I will follow it._

He grabbed one of the books from the desk behind his bed, a very nice copy of Oscar Wilde's _A House of Pomegranates_, and thumbed through the pages to "A Fisherman and His Soul," but the tale of the fisherman attempting to sell his soul to be with his mermaid love could not fight his exhaustion for very long, and soon his eyelids fluttered closed for longer and longer intervals until he sleepily but carefully set the book aside.

The plush of the sleeping bag and the scent of lavender from Brian's mother's laundry detergent lulled him to sleep quickly, and he dreamed he was flying through the clouds on great, downy white wings.


	2. Settling in

While his family usually stuck to simple, healthy food, Aziraphale was quite fond of richer fare. That is to say, his breakfast tray included a large croissant, slathered in butter and jam, and a large mug of cocoa (with, of course, several marshmallows).

Brian had been a snoring lump under the covers when Aziraphale woke, later than usual but still fairly early. He'd grabbed his clothes and toiletries and padded down the hall to the shared bathrooms. Most of the rooms he'd passed seemed to be occupied by now, based on the name tags and other decorations adorning the doors.

He'd brought _A House of Pomegranates _with him to the dining hall, but the thought of accidentally smearing strawberry jam across the pages made him shudder, so he left it on the chair beside him and watched the people around him instead. Last night, there had seemed to be mostly freshmen, but now there were older-looking students in line and at the tables. Many of them were deep in conversations with old friends and classmates, catching up after a summer apart. A pang of homesickness rattled through Aziraphale as he sipped his cocoa, a unique feeling that he didn't like at all.

The thought of home reminded him that the campus post office would be open soon, and hopefully he could pick up the rest of his things and get settled in before the start of classes the next morning. He finished his croissant, dabbed any trace of jam from the corners of his mouth, and deposited his dishes at the counter, book tucked under his arm.

If he recalled correctly, the post office was near the far end of the main administrative hall, in the large student center that also housed tutoring services. He strolled along the uneven brick pathways, face turned up to the sun, until a harried-looking mother bashed a cart stacked high with storage cartons into his shins, exclaiming an apology and pausing briefly before continuing towards the dorms with her burden.

He grimaced at her in reassurance, waiting until she was a good distance away to limp towards the fountain and take a seat on a bench. A quick inspection of his shin revealed a purplish-red mark above his dress sock that would become quite a bruise later, but he was otherwise unharmed, so he continued to the post office.

Inside, a line of students who had also shipped their belongings to campus trailed towards the counter. Aziraphale said a silent prayer of thanks for bringing Wilde and a mild curse at the throbbing in his shinbone. He ignored the surrounding chaos and conversations and dove back into "A Fisherman and His Soul" as he shuffled forward in line, finishing it and "The Star-Child", a story about a vain, cruel boy who overcomes several trials to become a benevolent king, only to be replaced by a cruel, evil monarch when his reign ends. _Wasn't that the way._

When he reached the counter, there were somehow still luggage carts to borrow...but the bags the assistant piled his cart were considerably fewer than he was expecting.

"Er, is that all you have for me? I'm expecting about five more boxes," he asked.

"That's all we've got here. Sometimes stuff that's shipped the same day takes a few to come in. We'll give you a call if anything else comes for you. Make sure you bring the cart back when you're done, someone else'll need it." He opened his mouth to ask another question but the woman had already turned to the next person in line, so he nodded his thanks and grabbed his cart.

While the brick sidewalk was beautifully picturesque, apparently the woman who'd hit him had been onto something: careening down the path was the only way to fend off the drag of the uneven surface. Luckily, he made it back to his room without any further collisions.

Brian was now awake, pulling on a backwards baseball cap that looked like it could use a wash and a pair of scuffed hightops. "Hey man, you're back! You need any help with unpacking?"

"If you could help me with some of the boxes, it would be incredibly helpful. A madwoman tried to run me over and injured my shin," Aziraphale replied, gesturing to his leg.

"Yeah, the sidewalks here could use some help. I've seen so many people trip on 'em. Just wait until the rain starts up in a few weeks, though, people will fall on their asses. That brick gets pretty slick when it gets wet." Brian snorted but rolled his eyes at Aziraphale's clueless expression, helping haul the cart's burden to their. "You okay to get the cart back on your own? I gotta run to the bookstore. I told my ma nobody gets their books before classes start, but she ordered 'em anyway and they've been hounding me to come pick 'em up."

Aziraphale politely declined the help and opened the boxes as his roommate left. He puffed a sigh of relief that his books had arrived intact, cushioned by his clothing. From what he could tell, most of what was missing was non-essential, at least for now: winter clothing, a small keepsake clock he'd found at a yard sale, an absolutely hideous ceramic snake made by one of his siblings in art class that he'd loved too much to see discarded, and unfortunately, his sheets. Looked like he'd be holding onto Brian's sleeping bag a little longer.

He trundled the cart back to the post office, which was busy as ever, and began to wander, enjoying the sun with a more watchful eye to the sidewalk traffic. As if guided by some internal compass, his steps brought him to the library. As he discovered when he pushed through the heavy wooden doors, its plain brick exterior belied a breathtaking interior. The first floor contained book-lined alcoves divided by glass-doored display cabinets for more precious tomes, with a bronze-railed staircase leading to the second floor, where the balcony looked up to the arched, plastered ceiling decorated with pale, intricate coats of arms and down to the well-worn wood parquet floor. Most of the ceiling was glass, allowing in ample light. The air smelled of paper mildew and history, and he absolutely _loved _it.

So much, in fact, that with his nose buried in a book about 16th century philosophy, he hardly noticed that the sky had started to darken just at the edges until his stomach growled loudly, startling him away from the text. A peek at his watch revealed that it was already close to dinnertime, so he stood and stretched, then grabbed his stack of books and headed to the front desk to check them out.

The dark-haired librarian raised an eyebrow at his selection but smiled when she handed him a slip with the titles listed in neat yet spiky writing. "Getting a head start on the semester?"

"Just a bit of side-reading, really. Although I suppose these couldn't hurt my theology education." He introduced himself and learned that her name was Ms. Device ("An old family name"). "I imagine we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other."

She broke out in a grin, laughing at his expression when he realized what he'd said. Aziraphale babbled a farewell and practically sprinted out the door, completely embarrassed. In addition to being considerably older than him, she was pretty but… not his type. At all. The thought nagged at him all the way back to his room, an icy terror and shame that he had to struggle to subdue.

Brian and Heather invited him to dinner with them, a welcome distraction from the tumult of his thoughts. The lemon and chicken scampi he chose was hearty, and he fished for chunks of bread with his fork as he listened to them chatter.

"Ugh, my first class is at 8:30 tomorrow, whhhy?" Brian groaned. "Stupid gen ed. Intro to Psychology has literally nothing to do with my major." He turned to Aziraphale. "What about you, 'Ziraphale, what time's your first class?"

He'd briefly scanned his course schedule and the other papers in the orientation packet, but hadn't managed to find his planner in the boxes yet. "If I recall correctly, I believe it's at 9:00—I start with Bio 150, Nutrition. Apparently it's required for theological studies."

Heather's eyes widened as she swallowed her food. "Theological studies? You planning to be a priest?"

"Well, no. My family isn't Catholic, you see. My father is a Christian minister, though, and I plan to follow in his footsteps."

"So ministers can get married and have kids and _all that_, then?" She waggles her eyebrows in a way that makes Aziraphale slightly uncomfortable.

"Yes, ministers can get married and _all that_. But I'm not particularly worried about settling down at the moment."

Brian laughed at his dry sarcasm. "No girlfriend back home then?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm single." As he'd ever been. Not that he necessarily minded the lack of romance, or friends. The former was something that so far, only happened to other people, and the latter...well, now he had two friends who weren't his siblings. "What about you two?"

Brian and Heather rolled their eyes at each other. "Nah, I'm free as a bird, but Heather here's got a guy."

"Dave doesn't go here. He works downtown as an assistant cook first shift, so I'll get to see him after class most days. He's pretty rad, as long as he stays away from his Valley Girl ex." She stuck her tongue out in disgust.

After dinner, they wandered back to the dorms. Heather sprawled on Brian's bed, flipping on the small TV perched atop a battered VCR on his dresser to watch _Jeopardy_. Aziraphale began unpacking more of his boxes, arranging his clothing and books tidily and putting his supplies for the morning in his satchel. He tentatively offered answers at first, but soon, with their encouragement, began to blurt them out unabashedly. Soon, all three of them were laughing and shouting answers at Alex Trebek and the episode's contestants.

Aziraphale smiled wider than he had in a long time.

* * *

He had been right: Nutrition was first, followed by a quick break for breakfast, then Introduction to Theology and Algebra II. Then he was free for the day to eat a late lunch and head to the library, where he reviewed the syllabi for his Monday and Wednesday schedule and organized his planner.

Four days later, he had a few new bruises: As part of his general education requirements, he'd apparently signed up for fencing. (It was better than running, which he had sworn he'd only do if hell itself was after him.) He'd never been particularly agile, and the class had begun with a rapid-fire introduction to footwork that had begun well enough—until he'd tripped over an untied shoelace and fallen hard on his forearms. Apparently, even after graduation, being fat and clumsy was still amusing, judging by his classmates' titters.

He trudged back to his room in the dark, ready for the day to be over...only to see Brian and Heather dressed in attire he'd only see in person at the church's "troubled youth" seminars. Brian's tight black jeans were adorned with a loose, studded belt; his t-shirt displayed the name of an unfamiliar band, covered by a worn-in denim vest with pins proclaiming "CLASH", "Dead Kennedys", "PUNK ISN'T DEAD", and other phrases in capital letters that looked to be cut from magazines. Heather's red hair was spiked high with gel, and she'd changed into a black miniskirt and fishnets, with a denim and leather jacket adorned with more pin-back buttons. She was adding another coat of thick black eyeliner in the mirror on Brian's closet.

Aziraphale gaped at them until both looked up from their adjustments to see his astonished face. "Oh good, you're back! Want to come out with us tonight? One of my favorite bands is playing at this shithole downtown. It's grody, but the band rocks, and they won't ID us."

The thought of visiting what his father most likely would refer to as "a den of iniquity to hear the sound of Satan corrupting young minds" both terrified and intrigued him. After all, wasn't part of his mission in traveling halfway across the world to also see what he'll be up against when he completed his education and began going out into the world to complete good works?

"Actually, I think I would love to." Their expressions matched his from a few moments ago. "Only...is this okay to wear?" He gestured down at his brown chinos, white dress shirt, and periwinkle tie.

They glanced at each other, then Heather stood and made for the door as Brian dragged him over to his closet. "You could wear that...or, if you want, you could borrow a few things. I'm a bit taller than you but I think we wear the same size shoes…" Maybe it was his exhaustion, or the embarrassing frustration of his fencing class, but some insanity prompted his mouth to open and agree to the items Brian handed him.

Soon, he had changed, and took a look at himself in the long mirror: Black boots, borrowed from Brian, under his chinos, rolled a few times at the ankle; a silky black vest over his dress shirt, its sleeves also rolled; some sort of tarnished silver chain choker necklace; and his white-blond hair mussed and gelled. He started to flatten with his hands in a panic when Brian called it "bed head" and explained what that meant, but his friend laughed and grabbed his hands away, reassuring him that it looked good. He did, however, manage to refuse Heather's offer to line his eyes with her kohl pencil. She, too, reassured him that he looked just right for the occasion.

The bus trip downtown was quick, any post-dinner traffic long gone, and soon they'd reached a street corner crowded with people their age in similar attire. Cigarette smoke wafted through the air, and the smell of beer only grew as they pushed their way through the loiterers to the front door. As predicted, the bouncer took their money without asking for IDs, and then they were inside, and everything was chaos.

The place wasn't large, but they pushed their way past what seemed to be masses of people crowded at the bar, shouting and waving money to get the attention of the bartenders. Bodies pressed far too close for comfort as Aziraphale trailed Brian and Heather; he hated being touched, particularly by sweaty strangers who reeked of alcohol. His friends (_hmm, he quite liked the sound of that)_ managed to push their way to the bar and acquire drinks fairly quickly, and soon they were moving again through the dark towards the stage, where a band was setting up to play—drummer, bassist, guitarist. A microphone stood near the front, lit by a spotlight but conspicuously unused.

A few riffs later, the drummer began a beat on the symbol, and the crowd began to roar. Finally, then, as the music began to crescendo and the crowd responded in kind, a boy who looked about their age walked onto the stage, yelling into the microphone, "We are The Doomsday Option, and you can bugger off!" in a vaguely lilting accent, and the show began.

_Oh no_, Aziraphale thought, as he listened to the lanky man in a low-cut, silky shirt and skin-tight leather pants that hugged every angular curve. _Oh no, _he thought, as the man pushed back a wavy shag of bronze-red hair with long, thin fingers as he shout-sang about rebellion into the microphone. _Oh no_, he thought, at the dark-lensed tortoiseshell glasses so out of place in a bar at night, yet perfectly at home on the man's sharp-boned face.

_Oh bugger_, he thought, his heart dropping to the vicinity of his stomach even as it swooped into the rafters somewhere. _I'm doomed._


	3. A name with bite

Aziraphale's heart remained at a dizzying height from that moment, as the show continued and the people around him became more and more animated, at first swaying and then dancing riotously to the humming guitar and brassy drums.

In his wide-eyed state of panic or something like it, he allowed himself to be carried with the motion of the crowd, even jumping in time to the song as his eyes remained ever-fixed on the bronze-haired, bespectacled man keening out the lyrics:

_They take away our freedom  
__In the name of liberty  
__Why can't they all just clear off  
__Why can't they let us be  
__They make us feel indebted  
__For saving us from hell  
__And then they put us through it  
__It's time the bastards fell!_

The noise and light and movement all around him was intoxicating, and it seemed like hours and hours later when the last cymbol vibrations died away. The singer threw the microphone down in a hum of feedback and blew a kiss at the roaring crowd with a sharp-toothed grin as he disappeared off stage. A hum of conversation replaced the waves of electronic noise in Aziraphale's ears; it was like standing next to a jet engine that had just been turned off. He was dripping with sweat, and his body felt like it belonged to someone else.

"—Hey! Earth to 'Ziraphale!"

Brian nudged him, and Aziraphale jumped, realizing that his friend had been trying to get his attention. "Oh, sorry!" he shouted over the din.

"You okay?"

"Yes," he said a bit too loudly in reply. "It was louder than I thought it would be. I've...never been to a show like this before."

He didn't like the look in Brian's or Heather's eyes when they glanced at each other and smiled—and liked it even less when Heather grabbed his sleeve and dragged him towards a roped-off hallway near the corner of the stage.

"W-where are we going? This isn't the way we came in!"

"C'mon, we're going to go say hi to the band."

"Wait, I don't think we're allowed—but—"

His words died in his throat as Brian rapped briefly on the door and entered, followed by Heather, still dragging Aziraphale. The room was a combination of dressing room and lounge, with large but grimy mirrors, ragged Oriental carpets, and well-worn furniture—across which the band's members were sprawled, resting with cold bottles of beer at hand and laughing at something.

"Brian! Hey, man." The bassist stood to give Aziraphale's roommate a tight hug, causing Brian to laugh and shove him away.

"Dude, you got sweat all over me, gross!"

"Whatever," the bassist replied, collapsing back onto a well-padded armchair. "Good to see you. Who're your friends? I'm Chuck, by the way."

"This is Heather, don't think you've met before. And Aziraphale, he's from abroad. You two, I've known Chuck since… like, forever. That's Steve and Kyle over there," Brian said, gesturing to the guitarist and drummer, who raised their beers in greeting. "And that's Crowley."

Crowley, he of the leather pants and wicked grin and flaming hair, was sprawled wide-legged across the sagging couch. For a moment, he seemed to be asleep, completely unmoving, but suddenly he coiled himself up to stand beside them in a quick, sinuous movement.

Aziraphale's mind had apparently at this point given up, packed its bags, and hailed a cab. They were all looking at him after Heather had waved hello, so he did the first thing that came to mind and thrust out a hand to shake while offering a beaming, if somewhat panicked, smile.

Crowley looked down at the proffered hand for a moment, then at Aziraphale's face, then shrugged and stuck out his own hand, its nails painted a fading black, for a quick shake.

As they pulled their arms back, Brian laughed and said, "I think he's a bit nervous. This is his first show." Aziraphale could feel the mortified blush rising on his round cheeks.

"Oh, how'd y'like it?" Crowley was looking at him and _talking to him_ and would his brain _please_ return to its rightful state and help him here—

"It was...loud. Er, louder than I'm used to. But I liked it," he rushed to add, relieved he'd been able to form actual, understandable words. And Crowley smirked, tight-lipped, before Heather yawned and stretched beside them.

"Was nice to meet you, but we're gonna miss the bus if we don't get back, guys," she said.

They left the band to their alcohol-assisted recovery and made their way outside, where the air cooled their sweat and caused shivers at the sudden change in temperature. By the time they trudged off the bus and parted ways with Heather, Brian and Aziraphale were both beset by jaw-cracking yawns.

After a quick shower that felt absolutely heavenly, Aziraphale slid into his borrowed sleeping bag with a contented, tired sigh. His body felt wrung out as the onslaught of adrenaline that had coursed through his veins finally faded. But while Brian was already snoring, Aziraphale stared up at the dorm room's ceiling.

_Crowley_. It was a name with bite, a crisp mouthful that set his insides into a tumultuous roil. He thought about the sharp angles of Crowley's hips and the confident smirk of his mouth, and the smooth, dry skin of his hand grasping Aziraphale's own. These were pleasant thoughts.

But the thoughts that crept in beside them in the quiet dark were not so welcome. A familiar shame and self-loathing and sorrow stained him, wrapping into a knot that he shied away from untangling. _Besides, a man like that probably has a girlfriend,_ he told himself. _Maybe even several girlfriends._ _You're a small, fat, strange boy who likes books and tea and…_

He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly and deeply, mentally flipping through Bible pages in search of comfort. _Isaiah 26:3_—"_You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you"..._ Aziraphale followed his thoughts through the verse, breathing deep, until he drifted softly to sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale spent most of the weekend trying to distract himself. It mostly worked.

Brian was off skateboarding, and Aziraphale begged off attending a party with Heather and her boyfriend Saturday night. He spent the day at the library instead, poring over various tomes and marveling that he was allowed to bring his Thermos full of tea with him. At home, the local librarian had kept a stern, hawklike eye out for any consumables or liquids, lest the collection of frankly shabby books in their crinkling plastic covers end up damaged under her watch. Ms. Device, in contrast, raised her eyebrows at him when he had tentatively asked permission, then reminded him with a motherly smile that he was in college now and also seemed quite responsible anyway. Next time, she said, he might even bring some biscuits, as long as he promised to share.

Sunday was gloomy and rainy, but he woke early anyway to dress for church in a pair of dove grey trousers, the red tie again, an eggshell marled shirt, and his khaki coat. The pavement outside was treacherously slick, but he stepped carefully and managed to make it to the front steps of the church without incident.

Like the library, the building was more opulent than the one at home, although this one looked to be similar in age to the stark white house of worship Aziraphale's family managed. Although chipped and dusty, the painting across the lofted ceiling was captivating, depicting the life and death of Christ, who gazed benevolently down at the pulpit from a mass of fluffy white clouds and sunbeams. The pews creaked with age as worshippers shifted, whispering softly to one another.

That day, the preacher had chosen to speak about weakness and resisting temptation, with many a side-eyed glance at the hungover college student strong armed into attending by their own parents from afar.

"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me," the preacher recited. "Now I think that's a message we can all take to heart today. We can tell the Lord our sins, because he already knows all of them and he'll forgive us anyway, no matter what." Aziraphale glanced down at his folded hands.

After the service, he introduced himself to the pastor, a rotund man named Clive Honeycutt who liked to feed ducks at the pond in a nearby park. He taught some of the higher-level theology courses and suggested a few to Aziraphale to consider for the next semester before patting him gently on the back in farewell, promising to chat further at the theology mixer later that week, and looking to the next of several parishioners waiting to speak with him.

When he returned to his room, Brian was chewing on a piece of beef jerky and looking through the milk crate that held his cassette tape collection. "Hey, 'Ziraphale! You're looking fancy. I can't find my Cure tape, wanna come with me to Zedd's? It's the music store," he added, seeing Aziraphale's blank expression.

"Oh! Why, that would be nice. Shall we catch the 2 o'clock bus?"

They did, finding themselves outside of the aforementioned Zedd's Music Emporium a half hour later. Inside, Aziraphale was reminded of an independent bookstore, only instead of books crammed onto every shelf and stacked on the floor and displayed with colorful, handwritten price signs, there were cassettes and records. The back wall displayed several autographed guitars, as well as signed concert posters, and there were a few listening booths near the back door. The gloomy, pale light from the large front window was assisted by strings of fairy lights woven along the shelves. A grizzled, balding man in a faded band t-shirt sat on a stool behind the counter, grunting at them when they came in without looking up from his magazine.

Aziraphale continued to look around as he followed Brian, seeing nothing he recognized. His father was strictly against popular music, preferring classical compositions or hymns played on their ancient record player that lived on a spotless shelf in the living room.

As Brian searched, Aziraphale browsed aimlessly beside him… until he had an idea. "Your friend's band, what was it, The Doomsday Option? Do they have any tapes here?" he asked his friend, feigning casualness.

"Oh, yeah, I bet they do—Zedd's big on promoting local stuff. Check farther down, it would be with the Ds."

He did, and there was, and soon he was paying for his very first cassette tape, and Brian promised that he could borrow his Walkman whenever he wanted until Aziraphale could get his own. They were expensive, but Brian knew a good thrift store they could check out that was unfortunately closed on Sundays.

When they got back to campus, Aziraphale patiently accompanied Brian to the dining hall (dinner was chicken a la king, but the featured dessert was a scrumptious chocolate mousse) before oh so politely asking Brian to borrow the Walkman.

While Brian was showering, he grabbed it and the tape and strode to the ground-floor bathroom (thankfully empty) and locked himself in one of the stalls. He popped the tape out of the case, which was decorated with a black and white photograph of the band leaning against a brick wall, middle fingers raised towards the camera and cigarettes dangling from sneering lips. "The Doomsday Option" was scratched across the top of the photo. On the reverse, there was a typed list of track times, next to song names like "Suspect Device" and "Don't Tell Me to Move".

Aziraphale drew the headphones on, pushed the tape into the Walkman, and listened as the riffs of a guitar flooded his ears and then Crowley's voice:

_I'm dead on arrival  
__I'm a horror unseen  
__I'm unlikely survival  
__I'm the worst that you've seen…_

Goosebumps rose on his skin as he finished the song, then the next and the one after that. The snarl of Crowley's voice, the passionate disdain, took the air from his lungs and dazzled him as he listened with closed eyes and bated breath. He could picture the temptation of Crowley strutting on the stage, pulling the microphone on its stand in close to snarl the words in that drawling accent.

But the creak of a pipe overhead in the silence after the third song startled his eyes open, and he realized that he'd been hiding in a bathroom stall for close to 20 minutes. He stopped the tape and stood, clearing his throat and adjusting the front of his trousers as he made his way back upstairs.

A cold shower helped drown out the hum of the music still trapped in his brain. Mostly.

* * *

The next few weeks offered Aziraphale little time to do much other than study and collapse into bed. After the leisurely pace of the first week of classes, each of his teachers now began piling on work. Aziraphale's left hand cramped from taking copious notes, and he had a perpetual smear of ballpoint pen on his hand, despite flipping his notebooks to adjust to his southpaw writing. He spent his nights reviewing his notes for upcoming math quizzes that were already approaching fast, writing up short essays for his theology class, and studying homemade nutrition flashcards.

His fencing footwork had progressed reasonably well, although he was still nowhere near as agile as many of his classmates. He left each class drenched in sweat and ravenous, devouring dinner as though he was starving while Heather and Brian wolfed theirs down beside him. Heather was studying multimedia art, and her class was already preparing for their first campus show, so she was often in the studio for long hours when she wasn't with them or Dave. Brian was less busy but still growing, he told them, as he took extra helpings of dinner, yet avoided gaining weight in a way that Aziraphale was infinitely jealous of.

In addition to chatting further with Pastor Honeycutt, he met a few new acquaintances at the theology school mixer. One of them was a pale-haired girl named Mary who spoke quietly with him about books for a few minutes over coffee (or, in his case, cocoa). She mentioned that she had recently found a book that claimed talking to plants helped keep them happy, which it turn helped them grow more lush and vibrant. When Aziraphale confessed that he'd never owned a plant before, much less conversed with one, she wrote down the name of a plant shop downtown, explaining the basics of indoors-tolerant houseplants and the benefits of having a few in one's dorm.

Aziraphale had taken the paper and thanked her politely but forgotten about it until later that weekend, when more rain drizzled outside. He'd found himself staring out at the drops rather than paying attention to his grammar textbook and decided he needed a break.

The bus was remarkably crowded for a weekend; apparently some sporting event was taking place despite the rain. The crush of people made him nervous and uncomfortable, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he finally reached his stop.

The plant store was tucked down a side street, buckets of greenery collecting rain under the fogged bay window. A chiming doorbell played as he stepped inside, tapping his umbrella to dispel the water droplets onto the entryway mat.

Every surface of the shop, from floor to ceiling, was covered in plants: Sitting in pots, hanging in baskets, nestled on shelves and counters and the windowsill. The air smelled of soil and moisture and the perfume of lush flowers.

He had greeted the woman at the counter, then wandered the store, picking up and studying one plant after another. Aziraphale examined their handwritten labels to see if they contained guidance on what sort of plant would be best for the dry air of his dormitory.

He turned to head back to the shopkeeper and ask about the plant he held, something called a pothos, and collided with someone. Juggling the plant and the umbrella, he managed to grab the latter. He gaped in horror, frozen, as he watched the plant on its collision course with the floor, but Crowley caught the pot just before it landed and rolled back up to grin at him from behind his dark glasses.

"Well, that was close."

* * *

_Chapter notes:_

_Song lyrics from "Suspect Device" by Stiff Little Fingers  
Bible verse is __2 Corinthians 12:9_


	4. Spathiphyllum

_TW for this chapter: Homophobic slur_

* * *

"Oh! Crowley, hello!" Aziraphale exclaimed before his brain could stop his mouth.

The man tipped his head to study him from behind those dark glasses as he handed back the plant. Aziraphale's heart sank, but then Crowley snapped his fingers and grinned. "That's riiight, you're Brian's friend from the show! You looked...different then. More edgy, or something," he said with a nonchalant wave at Aziraphale's outfit. Instead of his borrowed ensemble, Aziraphale had today donned a robin's-egg shirt under a velveteen vest, topped off with a brown plaid bowtie and his khaki coat.

"Er, well, I didn't really have anything appropriate to wear that night, so Brian and Heather kindly lent me some of their things. And fixed my hair. This is what I usually look like, more or less." At least Crowley hadn't tried to yank his bowtie off or asked him where his old-man cane was, like the children back home at school used to do. (Gabriel insisted that they needed to present their best selves every day, not just in church, because God was always watching. But honestly, Aziraphale had always liked to dress this way. He thought bowties made him look rather smart.)

Crowley shrugged with a smooth roll of his shoulders and they stood silently for a moment, looking at each other, until Crowley exclaimed, "Ezra...Azra...Ah ha! Aziraphale! Knew it was in there somewhere, name like that you remember! Not like 'John' or 'Mike' or whuzzat."

Once he'd recovered from the startle, Aziraphale smiled broadly. "Pleased to meet you again. I'd offer a handshake but I don't want to risk another accident with the poor plant—"

The air left his lungs as Crowley, swift and smooth as a snake, leaned in close to peer at the pothos, expertly inspecting the undersides of the leaves and testing their hardiness with short, sharp pokes that made the plant quiver. His research concluded, he stood, yanked the pot from Aziraphale's hands and plunked it on a nearby counter.

"You don't want that one, it's got leaf spots. Trust me, one leaf spot and then all the other leaves think it's fine to let themselves go. You want something a bit sturdier, bit more robust."

He grabbed Aziraphale's sleeve and pulled him towards another counter. "Dracaenas are sturdy but no, noo, ugly little buggers. Let's see…no, nope, all wrong..." Crowley waved off the shopkeeper's help as he picked up and examined plant after plant, then froze and looked up. "What you need," he said, dragging Aziraphale to the window, "is this. _Spathiphyllum_, commonly known as—"

"Peace lilies." Amid the plant's luxuriously dark, shining leaves stood delicate, hooded white flowers that Aziraphale recognized from the Easter altar at church. "It's beautiful." He picked up the plant gently, turning it to study it in the light, with a soft smile on his face. It really was lovely, and it reminded him of home.

That Crowley had taken the time to help him when they were barely acquaintances, and without growing bored or impatient, meant a lot. Crowley seemed a bit taken aback at his expression when their eyes met, and they both looked away, cheeks flushed.

"So how do you know so much about plants? Were you here to buy a present for someone?"

"Nah, I like plants. Keep a lot of 'em around at home to liven the place up a bit. I actually came in here for a new fig," he said, pointing over to a floor plant with large, round leaves that reminded Aziraphale of spinach. "They say the Tree of Knowledge was more likely a fig tree than an apple tree. You know, in the Garden of Eden."

When Aziraphale chuckled, Crowley frowned and bristled ever so slightly. But Aziraphale shook his head and replied, "Well, Adam and Eve did make their loincloths out of fig leaves in Genesis, so it's not impossible. I study theology, you see."

"Ah." Just like that, Crowley's expression cleared, and he strode over to the fig plants, poking and examining them as well. Aziraphale followed him over, reading the sign above: _Ficus lyrata (fiddle-leaf fig or banjo fig)_.

"I suppose it makes sense you'd want a musically named species. I think it's very fitting."

Crowley had evidently decided on a particular specimen and hefted it from the floor in its ceramic pot, his strength belied by his thin frame. "You know, I never thought about that."

Aziraphale practically glowed, pleased with himself for his wit. They continued to chat about plants as they hauled their purchases to the register, Aziraphale paying in crumpled bills extracted from his waistcoat pocket and Crowley sliding out a sleek, metallic charge card.

At the doorway, Crowley let out a blasphemous curse at the drizzle-turned-downpour outside. "Ohhh, come on. My car's parked two streets over. Blasted forecast's never right—"

"We could share my umbrella, if you'd like," Aziraphale offered shyly. "I can walk you to your car before I catch the bus. It's no bother."

"Really? All right," Crowley replied, mollified. They crowded underneath the slightly lopsided umbrella until both were reasonably covered from the steady patter of rain. Crowley pointed his chin in the direction of his car and they began a slow, careful walk, avoiding puddles and other sidewalk hazards.

Aziraphale was trying not to notice the frisson caused by the other man's proximity (_not warm, not exactly, more like that peculiarly charged sensation when you'd shuffled across a carpet in socks and then touched a doorknob)_ when Crowley stopped and said, "This is it."

He looked up and gaped.

He didn't know much about cars, but he could read the crest on hood between the widely spaced, rounded headlights. And he knew that Porsches were not exactly budget vehicles. This one's sleek, two-doored body was, as he perhaps should have expected, a shiny black that seemed to absorb the light from the raindrops that rolled off its surface.

"A-are you sure it's okay to put these in there? Won't it get dirty?"

Crowley shrugged, then stepped out from under the umbrella's protection briefly to unlock the car, with a hiss and shudder as the cold rain hit him. As he loaded their purchases into the backseat, he motioned at the passenger door without looking. "It's unlocked, you can get in."

Aziraphale quickly shook out the umbrella and sat, shifting on the buttery leather of the seat and trying not to touch anything. This car was probably worth more than his father made in _several_ years. Probably more than the church itself made in that much time. How did it belong to Crowley, who as far as he could tell was about his age? (_Was Crowley in school as well, when he wasn't singing anarchical choruses in grimy, dank clubs?_)

When Crowley got in and started the car, it gave off a low rumble that sounded like a faraway lawn mower to Aziraphale's unaccustomed ears. The sound made him jump, then titter nervously as he glanced over to see Crowley studying him again.

"Sorry, just startled me a bit. This car is quite nice. Um, is it yours?"

"Nah, just borrowed it," he said with a wicked grin before flooring it into traffic. Aziraphale clutched at the door handle and the belt across his chest as the Porsche dodged slower traffic, weaving between cars, trucks, and buses.

Any hesitation in deference to his uncertain feelings about Crowley was roughly shoved aside as he screeched, "Good heavens, you're going to get us killed!"

Crowley laughed but let off the gas just a fraction. _Oh good, now we'll just die ever so slightly slower,_ Aziraphale thought. _This is what I get for getting into cars with strange boys who lure me in with their smiles and their tight trousers and their knowledge of plants… _

"Are you always this jumpy?"

"No," Aziraphale pouted as his pulse returned to normal. Mostly. "Are you always this neglectful of traffic laws and, and general safety?"

"Only on days that end in '-y'." He swerved to avoid a pedestrian and Aziraphale looked heavenward, silently praying that they made it back to campus in one piece. The plants in the backseat caught his eye in the rearview mirror and he turned to look at them, then back at Crowley.

"Did you... buckle them in?"

Crowley made a noncommittal noise that sounded like "Ngk," and the sound elicited a strange fluttering in Aziraphale's chest.

"So, whereabouts are you from, then?" Crowley asked him a moment later, as they waited at a stoplight. Aziraphale told him about the small town thousands of miles away, adjacent to a city not unlike this one, where he, his father, and his siblings lived in the parish house beside the church.

"And you're going to school to study religion? If you grew up in a church, why'd they send you all the way here to learn about God and whatnot?"

"Well, they didn't send me here," Aziraphale explained. "It was my idea, you see. I thought might be good to get away from home for a bit, see the world...gain a bit of perspective."

"Get away from dear old dad, you mean?" Crowley replied, and Aziraphale felt that cold knot creep back into his consciousness when the comment hit a little too close to home.

They had reached the edge of campus, and he ignored the question to point Crowley in the direction of his dormitory. "How about you?" he asked quickly, and if Crowley noticed his evasion, he didn't mention it.

"What, school? Nah, just the band for me. This it, here?" He brought the Porsche to a rather abrupt stop and reached back to unbuckle Aziraphale's peace lily. For a moment, Aziraphale hoped he might offer to help carry it upstairs (_Crowley in his room near his bed oh goodness) _but he turned back and waited. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"Right. Thanks for the ride," he said briskly, clambering out to grab the peace lily, giving up on his umbrella and letting the rain soak into his hair. "It was nice to meet you properly. And thank you for helping me with the plant as well."

"Don't forget, water it once a week when the leaves start to wilt a bit. But don't overdo it."

Aziraphale nodded, gave him one last bright smile, and closed the door. "See you later, then."

Making his way carefully across the slick sidewalk and up the steps, lost in a fog of panic (_'See you later'?! Was that the best you can do? And when will I see him later?! Hm. When _will_ I see him later...) _he didn't notice Crowley watching him, long thin fingers tapping at the steering wheel in thought, before gunning the engine and taking off in a squeal of tires.

* * *

When he was in his room, he fussed over the peace lily enough that Brian and Heather both started asking him about the girl who'd given it to him. He'd toyed with the idea of using Mary as a ruse but decided against it. But that meant his roommate and friend had continued to guess her name, what she looked like, and what she studied. He'd finally sighed and admitted that he'd bought it for himself to brighten up his space a bit and add a finishing touch now that all of his things had arrived and been put in their proper places.

_Well, that's true enough, I did buy it for myself, _he thought. _Even if Crowley may as well have, since he helped me pick it out. _But a tiny kernel of possessiveness kept him from mentioning Crowley to them. The sight of the lily in its plain terracotta pot cheered him every time he returned from class or meals or excursions with Brian and Heather.

(He'd also acquired his own Walkman now, slightly dented but still functional, as well as a few more tapes suggested by his roommate. Funny enough, though, while the bands Brian suggested were quite similar to The Doomsday Option, none held the same appeal. He had, however, listened quite a few times to the Vivaldi and Mozart tapes he'd found crammed into a back corner at Zedd's and acquired for a steep discount.)

Occasionally, the sight of the plant made his heart ache in a yearning way that felt a bit like homesickness. Which he'd also had plenty of, despite weekly calls home to speak with his father and whichever sibling was around at the time, usually Luke but sometimes Ruth, his favorite sister. (She was the closest in age to him, and as the youngest, the family agreed, got away with the most, like stealing an entire box of pastries reserved for the post-worship coffee hour). The times she'd grabbed the phone from Gabriel to shout hello, she'd babbled about her friends in the youth choir or a local mission trip to a nearby impoverished neighborhood to serve meals, and the familiar onslaught of her voice had soothed Aziraphale.

He'd been distracted by thinking about his last call home, as well as the latest algebra assignment, one day as he walked to the library between classes one day. Distracted enough, apparently, to walk straight into something warm, soft, and solid, with an _oof _that snapped him out of his thoughts and into eye contact with the large, pissed-off boy built like a truck who he'd run into.

"Oh, my, I'm so sorry—" he stuttered, before the boy shoved him to the ground.

"Watch where you're going," he sneered, his friends laughing at Aziraphale's stunned expression as he lay sprawled across the damp grass. They stepped past him, muttering and laughing to themselves. "Fag."

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't _think_. Ice ran through his veins and his stomach heaved as he struggled to pull air in and out. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that particular epithet thrown his way, but to hear it _here_, at a place he'd thought would be a fresh start away from the bullies he'd encountered so often at home…

A voice cut through the fog, repeating his name until he looked up and saw Ms. Device crouched next to him, her hand reached out and a concerned frown on her face. "Aziraphale, are you all right? Did you fall?"

"No! No, I'm quite...quite all right. I just…"

She seemed to recognize something in his expression then as her mouth set into a grim line. She helped him to his feet, guiding his unresisting body inside the library to a small office, where she settled him into a large, well-cushioned armchair and knelt beside him.

"If you don't mind me saying, you don't seem like the alcohol type. Tea, then?"

He gave her a small, grateful smile. "Tea would be lovely, thank you."

She strode briskly from the room, leaving Aziraphale to look over his surroundings in a daze. There were posters of palm reading diagrams and astrological charts on the walls and haphazard stacks of magazines with headlines like "BIGFOOT SPOTTED IN WISCONSIN?"and "LEY LINES: THE FACTS" piled near the window. At his feet, a cheery, well-worn rag rug adorned the floor.

Ms. Device popped back in, steaming mug in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. "Here you are. You've got a bit of mud on you, I thought you might want to clean up."

"I hope I didn't get any on your chair—" But she waved a hand at him, not unkindly.

"No, that's not what I meant! You're fine! Just, if you wanted it." She sat in her desk chair and leaned forward, resting her head in her hands as she watched him sip the tea. "So what happened?"

Between mouthfuls of tea, he began with details of the brief encounter but soon found himself telling her about his primary school classmates and others, the bruises and scrapes and hateful words. Things he'd never told his father, although his siblings had known and done what they could to protect him. Aziraphale had always been a target, more so than any of the others in his family. Even if those targeting him didn't really know the truth of their words.

Ms. Device had rested a comforting hand on his arm, and refilled his mug, and listened. When a clock in the corner had rung out a peal announcing the hour, Aziraphale froze and leapt up, barely remembering the half-full mug in his hand at the last second. "Is that really the time? I'm—I've missed Theology entirely!"

"I wouldn't worry too much. Missing a class now and then, it's completely normal. Besides, I don't think any of your teachers will think you're skipping for anything other than a good reason."

She walked him back out to the main library and pressed a book into his hands. "You might have already read this, but here. He's one of my favorite poets, and this always helps me feel better when things are rough. Keep it as long as you like."

He looked down at the copy of Whitman's _Song of Myself_ and smiled. "It's been a long time. I'll give it another read, though. Thank you, Ms. Device."

She grinned back at him. "You can call me Anathema, you know. 'Ms. Device' sounds so formal. Besides, we can be friends in the 'Strange Names No One Can Pronounce or Spell Club'."

"I couldn't possibly...but thank you, again. Truly."

After the rest of his classes, he grabbed a quick dinner and retreated back to his room before Brian returned. Pulling the peace lily across his desk from its perch near the window, he flipped through the pages of _Song of Myself_, much like he usually did with his Bible, before deciding that perhaps with poetry it would be best to start at the beginning.

Clearing his throat, he spoke softly aloud, the flow of the words soothing him:

_I celebrate myself, and sing myself,  
__And what I assume you shall assume,  
__For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.  
__I loafe and invite my soul,  
__I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass..._

* * *

_In case you were wondering, Crowley drives a 1983 Porsche 911SC. Also, Aziraphale's plant has a name, but I don't know what it is yet. (Have suggestions? Leave them in the comments, please!)_

_Special thanks again to Simon (BadNewsForBrainwork, whateverthepleasure) for beta reading._


	5. Fright night

He didn't mention the incident during the next conversation with his father. Instead, Aziraphale chattered about a group discussion in Theology about the reliability of the subject as a logical construct for discussion of faith and religion, a topic which had brought out some very strong feelings in some of his classmates. (But Mary had been in his group, which had been nice. He'd thanked her profusely for recommending the plant shop.) He also mentioned an upcoming fencing match, scheduled for the weekend before the fall semester mission trip. Gabriel had sounded distracted, and there were mutterings in the background of the call as if he was holding another discussion while on the phone with his son. _Nothing different there, _Aziraphale thought sadly, then chided himself for the uncharitable thought. _He's a busy man, after all. He's an important figure in the community. _But before ending the call, Gabriel had mentioned how much they all missed him at home, and Aziraphale's heart ached a little less when he hung up.

Every night after dinner, he went to the gym and practiced for his fencing bout. He had chosen the sabre as his weapon, despite the larger target area and faster pace of competition; he didn't think his short, stout frame would suit the foil or épée, and the instructor had agreed. So far, he'd been fairly successful, as many of his classmates were unprepared for fencing with a left-handed opponent. But the upcoming bout would include competitors from other local colleges, and he wasn't confident that the luck he'd had so far would continue. Besides, Brian and Heather had both promised to attend and cheer him on, and he didn't want to embarrass himself too much in front of his friends.

A few other classmates joined him occasionally at night to spar, practicing lunges and parries until they were all sweaty and out of breath. He felt lighter each time when he left, buoyed by the physical exertion (and freed of the bulky sous-plastron and jacket).

Suddenly, his schedule was quite full with classwork and preparation for the bout and the mission trip, as well as social plans. Brian and Heather had invited him to a costume party, along with Dave, Chuck, and several other friends, and he'd tentatively agreed. The thought of an alcohol-fueled bacchanal made him uneasy—Halloween was, after all, a celebration of pagan temptation. He'd always been discouraged from dressing up and going out even as a small child, although trick-or-treating was not as popular at home as it was here. But in the spirit of trying new things, and perhaps gaining some secondhand insight into the attractiveness of getting drunk and endangering one's immortal soul, Aziraphale decided to make a costume. Heather had pilfered some wire, impressively realistic synthetic feathers, glue, and other supplies from the art school, which he'd initially refused until she'd reminded him how much her tuition cost (and that therefore, the supplies were hers, really, if you looked at it that way).

Despite being kept company by a crowd of notebooks, textbooks, other books, and craft supplies, Aziraphale's peace lily (now named "Oscar Wilde", or "Wilde" for short) seemed quite happy with its diet of steady sunlight, appropriate watering, and frequent entertainment in the form of his confessions and poetry readings. Returning to the quiet familiarity of his room each day eased him when the noise of the world grew too much.

"I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine," he read one night, and sighed. _That is the truth, isn't it_._ Seemingly caught here in this state of waiting even as I reach out to the new and unfamiliar. So restless, but for what?_ But some of his thoughts were too much weight to put on a simple houseplant, so he saved them for the times of quiet contemplation during Sunday service. If he didn't speak them into the air, then his shameful weaknesses would remain unfinished, unknown, locked away from judgment by anyone but himself and God.

He dreamed of Crowley's eyes, even though he'd never seen them. Sometimes, they a brilliant blue, or a luscious green, or a bright searing golden yellow, like searchlights in the night.

* * *

Somehow, through some holy miracle, he had won his bout. Barely, and by the end he'd been a trembling, exhausted mess of nerves and physical exertion, but still: a victory. He'd even managed a feint, although he'd missed the next hit and had to scramble to recover. At the end, Brian and Heather had cheered so loudly that people had stared at them, and at him, and he felt a loving sort of embarrassment as they hugged him and slapped his back and treated him to dinner at a hole-in-the-wall 24-hour diner downtown. (He'd practically inhaled the chocolate cream pie. Fencing was hungry work.)

The next morning, though, Aziraphale couldn't lift himself out of bed, his rubbery arms as useless as overcooked noodles. He'd suffered through another day of stiff, achy soreness until afternoon tea with Anathema. She'd presented him with a small jar of mentholated muscle rub that apparently worked wonders after yoga inversions, and it had helped him function enough to be able to take notes during classes without his hand shaking from the exertion.

"So where are you going again?" Brian asked during their weekly Jeopardy watching, as both of them struggled over math equations and grumbled about the general education curriculum and its torments.

"It's a regional homeless shelter, about two hours away. We'll be serving dinner and breakfast and helping bag purchases at their food pantry," Aziraphale replied, frowning down at a particularly stubborn equation as a commercial played in the background.

"Cool. So, um, d'you mind if I have company over, while you're gone?"

The cagey hesitation of his tone made Aziraphale look up from his textbook. "Company? Like, friends?"

Brian shrugged and grinned. "More like, a particular friend. I kind of met this girl. She's pretty cool, but her dorm is usually pretty crowded."

The joy on his face made Aziraphale smile in return. "Oh, that's wonderful! What's her name? What is she like?" He learned that Rachelle, a fellow freshman, was a friend of one of Heather's friends and studied journalism, planning to become a reporter at a big paper after school. He expressed his hope of meeting her soon and learned that Brian planned to bring her to the Halloween party—and apparently, one of her friends as well.

"Chuck said we can bring as many people as we want, the place is a mansion. And hey, maybe you and one of them could, y'know, hang out."

The suggestion sent Aziraphale into a sudden peal of laughter that brought tears to his eyes. "Oh no, I don't think so. But thank you for thinking of me." Brian's protestations that he hadn't even met them yet fell on deaf ears. "Truly, I'll be fine attending with the group, don't worry about me."

Brian had grinned back at his amusement, then they gave up on math for the night and focused on Jeopardy.

* * *

As if Aziraphale had blinked and time had flown in an instant, it was the night of the party. Truthfully, though, the last few weeks had been a slog of research papers, math tests, and keeping a food diary that made Aziraphale a bit embarrassed (did he really eat dessert _that _often?) until he convinced himself that gluttony, although a deadly sin, was far from the worst of them.

He'd managed to finish his simple costume in time to add a few embellishments, like gold paint swirls on the shoulders of the white robe-like smock Heather had also nicked from the art department and a few artful streaks of gold in the grey-white feathers of his wings. (The paint matched his halo, which was really a metal and papier-mâché circlet on a stick that pinned into his curls.) He didn't have any sandals, so he'd just slipped on his tan brogues. (At least they went with the khakis he was wearing under the robe, even if they were quite anachronistic. He wasn't about to traipse around a party at some stranger's house in bare feet.)

As they waited for their ride, the three of them stomped their feet and shuddered in the cold. Although fall was well arrived, the weather had been fairly mild until the last week or so, and now it seemed closer to winter than summer. Heather and Rachelle were particularly vulnerable; Heather was dressed in a revealing costume that Aziraphale assumed was a cat of some kind, with feline ears and tail accompanying her striped leotard, and Rachelle was dressed in a similarly revealing vampire costume that bared her midriff to the cold wind until Brian loaned her his coat.

They crammed into Dave's rusted minivan, which smelled of cigarettes and the thick, skunky scent of marijuana. (Aziraphale had smelled plenty of it during his rounds to nearby apartment complexes to talk to the tenants about their Lord and Savior. Usually as a door was closed firmly in his face after a polite refusal.) The close proximity of so many people, combined with anxiety about the party, made him restless and uneasy for the half hour ride…but the sight of the enormous house when they arrived was an unexpected distraction.

The massive brick structure was at the top of a steep hill at the end of a cobblestone drive. The front courtyard alone was practically the same size as Aziraphale's dormitory. Lights gleamed from dozens of windows set into the mansion's brownstone face, speckling the many landscaped shrubs and trees set to the side of the courtyard. Dozens of costumed partygoers were scattered across the adjacent lawn and crowded near the door, smoking and drinking and kissing and laughing.

Inside was pandemonium. Music blared from hidden speakers, barely audible over the din of dozens of intoxicated college students, laughing and fighting and throwing rolls of toilet paper up and over the chandelier. Everywhere he looked, there were people: girls dressed in colorful fairy costumes with hair full of glitter, men dressed as sailors or monsters or other characters. Or, as was true of many of the attendees, barely dressed at all. Miles of bare skin was on display, chests and legs and hips that were an invitation to press closer and slip away with their owners into the shadows.

Aziraphale tried to refuse the drink that Heather handed him, but she passed the plastic cup into his hand anyway. He took a small sip that burned his throat and followed his friends through the crowd, until Dave and Heather, and soon Rachelle and Brian, made their way through to the makeshift dance floor. Brian met his eyes and soundlessly gestured him over, but Aziraphale shook his head and stayed put. He didn't know how to dance at a party like this. He didn't want to dance alone. He stood back and watched his friends for a few minutes, looked around for anyone else he might recognize, and then left them to their dancing.

He had told himself this was a chance to perhaps pull a few more misguided attendees aside, chat with them about the other, more righteous path they could be on, but a sinking feeling in his stomach accompanied the realization that any efforts towards redemption here, on this night, would likely be wasted. There was too much noise, too much drink, too much...everything.

After pushing through the maze of grabbing hands and pointy bits of costume accessories and sloshing beer cups, Aziraphale finally reached a door and found himself on some small, empty side porch overlooking an expansive backyard. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he wiped it away with a corner of his robe, sighing with relief at the sudden quiet and space. Looking down at his cup, he shrugged and downed half of its contents in one gulp. He winced at the bite of the alcohol and leaned on the balustrade to watch drunken stragglers frolic around the lawn, their laughter echoing up from below. He closed his eyes and savored the chilly air.

_What _was_ I thinking, coming here? Besides, it's not like anyone wants to talk to me anyway_, he thought, fully aware he was moping alone under the stars and not really caring.

Alone until someone barged out onto the balcony, laughing and stumbling over to collapse against the balustrade next to him. And, of course it was Crowley of all people. But the surprise wasn't that Crowley appeared next to him as if summoned, but rather what was wearing...or not wearing.

"Oh good _lord_," Aziraphale said in admonishment, both at Crowley's outfit and his own thoughts at the sight as he tried not to gape.

Crowley's skin-tight black leather pants left little to the imagination, clinging to the swell of his backside. They were low-slung enough that Aziraphale could see the dips of the dimples at the base of his spine. Sans shirt, Crowley was adorned with a collection of tarnished silver necklaces and what Aziraphale really, truly hoped were not real tattoos of Satanic symbols on his neck and chest, along with the ever-present round sunglasses. He smelled like sweat and red wine, and his grin did things to Aziraphale's insides in an instant.

"Well, well, look who's here," Crowley replied, slightly out of breath. "What're you supposed to be, hmm?"

"Hello, and I'm an _angel_, thank you very much."

"Your halo's crooked, y'know." Crowley pointed up at his head. After Aziraphale struggled for a moment, he took pity on him and reached up, brushing Aziraphale's hands out the way to fix it himself. "There y'go. All right and proper again, angel."

"Thanks. And just what are yousupposed to be?" Aziraphale replied quickly, hoping the dim light hid his blush. His head felt fuzzy and his mouth was dry (_purely a side effect of the alcohol_, he told himself).

Crowley flopped over, resting his weight on his elbows and displaying a long, lean torso marred only by an appendectomy scar right above one of his sharp hipbones. (_Oh my_, Aziraphale thought.) He tipped his head back, sweat-damp red curls draped over his shoulder as he laughed, then angled his face to look up at Aziraphale.

"I'm a _demon_, of course. Can't you see my horns?" He gestured to his head, but Aziraphale looked confused. "Oh shit, I've lost them. Well. Dunno then. Suppose not all demons have horns. You here all by your lonesome, little host of heaven? Enjoying the revels and debauchery, I'm sure?"

"As much as any angel could, I suppose. What with the liquor and bebop and nakedness and all." He pointedly glanced at Crowley's bare front, then back up.

"Hey, look—" Crowley replied, staggering up to poke Aziraphale's chest with a long, thin finger. "Just 'cause you don't want to wander around, hrmkh, naked like the rest of us...wait, _bebop?_ Who are you, my granddad?"

"Fine, 'rock and roll' then," Aziraphale said, emphasizing with air quotes. "But it's much too loud in there, and people kept stepping on my robe and mussing my wings."

"Excuse you, it's punk, first of all," Crowley fired back with an amused grin. "And second, you didn't seem to mind the volume at the show the other night."

"Well," Aziraphale replied primly, "that was quite different. I don't know anyone here." He paused. "Er, other than Brian, and Heather, and Dave, and you, I suppose."

"And you plan on hiding out here all night?"

"I'm not—"

"—Hiding? Oh, c'mon. Sure, it's getting a little sloppy in there, but can't you find a nice cherub gal to cozy up with?"

"I don't think it's any of your business who I decide to cozy up with or, er, not cozy up with." He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth.

"Well, ex-cuuuse me," Crowley replied, his eyebrows shooting sky-high as he frowned. "Fine then, see you. Enjoy your brooding." He stood, wobbling a bit on unsteady legs, cleared his throat, and strode off in a more or less straight line, disappearing through a door on the other side of the balcony.

"Wait, where are you going? I don't think we should be snooping around, this isn't—" Aziraphale called after him, but Crowley was gone. Aziraphale took a few steps, then stopped, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly, then he straightened his robe, nodded resolutely to himself, and followed.


	6. A taste of Scotch

Aziraphale shuffled into a brisk walk to catch up with Crowley, who moved rather quickly down the dark, cavernous hallway. The dull thrum of music faded as he followed Crowley around corners and past several doors flanked by small tables and potted ferns.

"Wait, where are you—" Aziraphale called out as Crowley flung open a set of double doors and disappeared through them. He sped into a jog, one hand holding up his robe and the other keeping his halo from falling off.

Apparently Crowley had heard him approach and turned back towards him, because he made it through the door just in time for his face to collide with Crowley's all-too-bare chest.

"Oh, sorry!" Aziraphale cried out, startled and staggering over the hem of his robe as he jerked away. Crowley teetered on his heels, flailing and grabbing tightly to Aziraphale's forearms to regain his balance. When he straightened, his dark glasses were crooked and his cheeks were flushed.

Aziraphale's mind skipped like a warped record for a few moments as it tried to process that he'd touched Crowley's skin, and it had felt cold and warm all at once. "We really shouldn't be back here, you know, trespassing like this."

Crowley let go of his arms and stepped back, the ghost of a grin on his lips. "Well then, I suppose I _really _shouldn't raid their alcohol stash then, should I?"

"How do you know—" Aziraphale watched Crowley as he sauntered over to a large globe and cracked it open, extracting a sizeable bottle of amber liquor. But the words died on his tongue as his eyes adjusted to the dim light from the windows to finally process his surroundings.

There were books everywhere. So many books, shelves and shelves of them, with rolling wooden ladders on rails to reach volumes high up and a set of leather armchairs arranged near a gas fireplace. On the walls hung framed maps and antique sketches of machinery. (It was a library like he pictured belonging to Craven's manor house in _The Secret Garden_.)

Something nudged his hand, and he looked down to see a glass tumbler, half full of the liquor. "Here, it's better than that swill out in the punchbowl. That stuff'll give you a squint, if you're lucky."

"Crowley, we can't just take this! And besides, I don't drink!" He protested, conveniently ignoring that he'd that cup Heather had given him earlier and trying to hand the glass back. But Crowley just tapped his own glass against the rim in a toast and threw back a mouthful, wincing slightly at the burn.

"I don't think they'll mind, really. 'Sides, it's not drinking, 's an apology. For prying."

"You can't apologize with someone else's—"

"—izzit because of the religion thing? Why you're so—" Crowley interrupted, waving a hand at him. "—uptight?"

Aziraphale blinked and spluttered, caught off guard by the sudden pointedness of the conversation. "I am not _uptight._ I came here to help people, not, not fraternize and let loose." He looked down at the glass, swirling the amber liquid. A sadness sank into him at the realization that he'd probably revealed enough to lose Crowley's interest, if not actively drive him away. "I just...oh, never mind," he said, half to himself.

But to his surprise, instead of scoffing, Crowley pressed on. "No, hey, you told me you wanted some perspective, yeah? That's why you came all this way?"

Before he could reply, Crowley continued with a lazy wave of his hand. "'M not saying you have to drink or dance or, y'know, find a lady friend to debate scripture with or what have you," he said with a salacious waggle of his eyebrows, "But all those unwashed masses you're aiming to help _are_ people. You can't pretend people aren't out there doing all those things, that alcohol and lust and whatall just, just don't exist." He tugged on the edge of one of Aziraphale's wings, not unkindly. "'S like, how can you know you're good if you've never had at least the opportunity _not _to be?"

Once, when he was younger, Aziraphale had stopped at the park on the way home from Bible study. There had been a group of children there playing, rough and tumble and carefree. He remembered thinking that they looked as happy as his father had told him the light of the Lord made the truly righteous feel. But in that moment, he thought they looked happier than he'd ever truly remembered feeling. He'd felt contentment, and familial love, and the comforting presence of God, but never that reckless abandonment of curiosity and joy at the vivid, fleeting pleasure of life.

Buried somewhere close to that memory was that kernel of truth he'd never spoken aloud to anyone, only hinted at to Anathema after the incident the other day. Maybe Crowley wouldn't care that he found the hard lines of the male form more attractive than soft, feminine curves. But time and again, the world around him had told him that he was sinful, that he was wrong. It was the other reason he'd fled home, hoping to find answers to—or at least come to peace with—the shame and guilt.

"So what are you suggesting? Something like a _rumspringa_?" The furrow of Crowley's brow led him to explain, "It's where Amish youth leave home and go live among modern society. They have to decide if they're going to go back and become part of the faith for good, or leave everything they know behind."

"Now, _that's _a bit dramatic," Crowley drawled, taking the glass from Aziraphale's hand and downing its contents. "But, okay, yeah, bit like that. Just...live a little. However you want. Ah, that's a nice Scotch."

"'And malt does more than Milton can, To justify God's ways to man'," Aziraphale quoted with a small smile, his eyes darting up to Crowley's and away again.

"We-ell, I wouldn't have thought Housman your style! Bit cynical for someone studying theology, trying to do good and all that. Next you'll tell me you read Nietzsche in the bath."

In response to Aziraphale's expression of shock that Crowley was at least familiar with _A Shropshire Lad_, Crowley made an indignant noise. "I may be a reprobate, but I'm _literate, _thanks. In fact, I've read most of the books in this room. Except the law books, those are dull as _dirt_. Ugh, uhk, those old dusty tomes can _stay_ dusty." He pulled a book from a nearby shelf at random, peered at it closely, then dropped it on a nearby table and took another swig of Scotch.

And then Aziraphale was embarrassed by how long it had taken his sudden realization to enter his brain. "Oh, _oh_! This is _your _house?!"

Crowley laughed and gave a mock bow, his hair falling over his face in curly waves that he pushed back as he straightened. "You really didn't know? Well, welcome to Chez Crowley. Photographs permitted, but no flash, please."

"I can't believe, all these books, they're _yours_?"

"Well, my dear old dad's, yeah. Although they may as well be mine, for all he's around." The mirth drained from him as he realized what he'd said, a hesitancy suddenly appearing in his posture that Aziraphale knew all too well. Aziraphale's heart gave a pang in his chest, and he cleared his throat.

"All right, hand it over," he said, holding out his hand for the bottle of Scotch.

"What? But you just said you don't drink!"

"I don't, but...well, legal drinking seems like the least soul-damaging earthly temptation at the moment."

"You really don't have to—" He broke off as Aziraphale, before he could think too much, snatched the bottle and took a swig. Two seconds later, his throat was on fire. His eyes watered as he coughed and choked, bending to rest his hands on his knees.

"It's like, paint thinner, and—old books." His wheezing turned into laughter at the ridiculousness of all of it, and an airy recklessness burned through him along with the alcohol.

Crowley thumped him on the back a few times with his free hand, chuckling quietly. "How d'you know what old books taste like?" Crowley replied, the shadows gone from his countenance.

"Oh, faff off," he replied, tears in his eyes from the laughter and the Scotch.

They sat in the library and talked about books, ones they'd read in school and read for fun. Aziraphale tended to prefer poetry, while Crowley, he discovered, was a fan of science fiction and had read his paperback copy of _Brave New World_ so many times that its covers had to be taped back on. Aziraphale didn't have any more Scotch, but the warmth stayed in his core while they talked, and he forgot to be anxious about what Crowley would think of him.

Then, at the end of the library, a grandfather clock chimed one. "You feel up to facing the chaos again?" Crowley asked, when the loud reverberations had faded. "Your friends are probably looking for you."

"I suppose I should," Aziraphale replied with a sigh. "And I wouldn't want to keep you from your own party. You know, I can't believe your parents would let you have a party like this. It's like a war zone in there."

"Eh, as long as I don't break any windows or break out the really hard drugs, they don't really notice." Aziraphale couldn't tell if he was kidding. He tried to imagine Gabriel letting his children invite hoards of their friends over to blast music and drink unidentified alcohol and have sex in the dark corners. It would be easier to picture the Pope as a Hell's Angel. Something like pity thumped in his heart at the thought of Crowley wandering this big, empty house all alone.

"I'm sorry for earlier, by the way, when I snapped at you," he blurted out. "I was just...overwhelmed." By the grace of God, it seemed he hadn't completely mucked everything up.

"Nah, don't worry about it. I shouldn't have poked fun at you." They were standing awfully close now. Aziraphale could see his reflection in the lenses of Crowley's glasses, his own white-blond hair stark in the moonlight, as they looked at each other.

Then Crowley broke the silence. "Since you didn't like the Scotch, why don't you grab a book to take with you? With all our rehearsals the last few weeks, I haven't had much time for reading lately." He manhandled Aziraphale with cold hands over to a shelf near where he'd grabbed the Housman volume, ignoring his protestations.

Crowley set down the bottle and crouched as much as his leather pants allowed, thin fingers skimming the spines for a few moments. "Here, how about...ahrm, hmm, ah! This one! Yes!"

With a brilliantly illustrated leather cover, adorned with golden metallic leaf, the edition of Ovid's _The Metamorphoses_ thrust into his hands had to be worth a small fortune. It had been years since he'd read the myths of Greek gods and heroes.

"It's beautiful...thank you," he said, stunned. "I'll take good care of it, I promise."

"'Course you will, angel," Crowley replied, standing to run a hand through his hair before reaching up in a stretch that made Aziraphale's mouth go dry at the shift of muscles in his lean, angular torso. He sidled over to a desk, rummaged through it for a few minutes, and extracted pen and paper to jot something down.

"Here," he said, voice holding the ghost of hesitation. "I know you have phones in those closets you call dorm rooms. Ah, er, you can, uh, call me when you finish the book?"

"Oh! Of course, thank you," Aziraphale replied, taking the paper and tucking it just inside the book's cover.

"All right, c'mon, I'll help you find Brian." Crowley spun 'round and strode for the far door, and Aziraphale trotted to keep up, book tucked protectively close to his chest like the rarest treasure.

He did his best not to let his eyes wander too much to Crowley's leather-clad backside.

* * *

The raging headache he'd woken up with the next morning was every bit as awful as he'd imagined drinking too much would feel like. He slogged through the morning, leaving Brian to his own devices and ignoring most of his homework to instead hide in a dark, quiet corner of the library with a thermos of tea and cookies pilfered from the dining hall.

"_High o'er the clouds, and empty realms of wind, The God a clearer space for Heav'n design'd; Where fields of light, and liquid aether flow; Purg'd from the pondrous dregs of Earth below,"_ he read from the book Crowley had loaned him, embracing the hazy fugue of the grey, chilly day outside and his lingering hangover as he settled into the large, squashy armchair Anathema had probably placed here.

He'd had a soft spot for Perseus, Ovid's comical slayer of Medusa and monsters. Though the hero's basic plotline was quite routine, the author managed to make him a vehicle for the reader to travel the more interesting world around him. Stealing the eye of the Graeae, the witches with only one eye passed between them like a hot potato, the drama that continued even after his battles were won when a riot broke out at his wedding...even amidst the other tales of vengefully, petty gods and goddesses of ancient Greek mythology, for some reason Aziraphale was drawn to mortal Perseus.

When he takes a break to stretch and pour himself more tea, he finds his eyes wandering to the steady pattern of rain outside, slicking the sidewalks and the orange-leafed trees on the mostly abandoned lawn. Despite the new, looming threat of exams coming up in barely a month, this was always his favorite time of year, when the world turned inward and quiet.

And now, the orange of the leaves reminded him of the flaming tangle of Crowley's hair. Their conversation the night before had been utterly unexpected, and he sifted through the new information he'd learned, slotting it into his picture of Crowley. To find out the talented, utterly attractive musician he'd met only a handful of times shared, at the very least, his own appetite for the written word had thrown a wrench into Aziraphale's carefully constructed mental picture of someone who he could admire from afar, their worlds too different to overlap much despite his desire to the contrary.

Crowley read books and cared for plants...and cared that he'd upset Aziraphale, despite his witty, mercurial temper. More than an attractive face (oh my, that _body_) he was an enigma, and even after only meeting him a handful of times, Aziraphale felt drawn to him like a star, like the sun. He'd never felt like this.

He sighed and took a deep sip of tea. Did he dare hope that perhaps Crowley was thinking of him? Wondering about him, interested in knowing more about him, interested in spending more time with him? He couldn't bring himself to believe that Crowley felt the same (terrifying but exhilarating) yearning for something more, but…

And then he remembered, and opened the front of the book to the piece of paper there. He read the number and note, jotted down in thin, spiky handwriting:

"_The phone number of Anthony J. Crowley, for Aziraphale, a somewhat fussy angel, who had better not skip the Pierides vs. the Muse because that's the best part."_

With a grin, he set the note and his tea aside, consulted the table of contents, and flipped to "The Song of the Pierides".


	7. A garden invitation

During algebra, Aziraphale doodled in the margins of his notebook, sketching the Minotaur and Perseus in an epic battle as the professor droned on about linear and quadratic functions. He wasn't an artist by any means (the Minotaur looked more like an angry, broken-legged horse with horns) but it was something to do as his thoughts wandered away from mathematics in boredom.

When he drew Orpheus, the legendary mortal had Crowley's sharp grin and angular face, the waves of his hair held back by a laurel wreath. _How fitting,_ he thought_. But I rather suppose in this daydream, that makes me Eurydice. Not a very happy ending there. But the robes would be utterly comfortable._

After class, he met Brian for lunch. His friend caught him up what he'd missed while he was in the library with Crowley, including a fight that had left one poor bystander with a massive black eye and one poor girl soaked in red punch. But otherwise, he'd enjoyed the party, and asked where Aziraphale had disappeared.

"Oh, I was outside for a bit. Then I, er, found some books," Aziraphale replied, not meeting Brian's eyes as he answered and poking his fork aggressively at the chicken pot pie in front of him.

"Uh huh." Brian answered, studying him. "What kind of books make someone blush like that?"

"I-I'm not—," he stammered, then changed the subject. "Oh! Did you know that huge mansion is Crowley's? I had no idea! Honestly, I think you could fit this dorm and the two next door in there and still have room left over!"

"Yeah, no kidding. I've been over there a few times with Chuck, before rehearsals. Place is giant. Chuck said Kyle got lost in there one time a few years ago trying to find a bathroom." He paused to cram a gooey bite of pizza into his mouth, barely chewing it before swallowing. "I guess Crowley's dad is some big business mogul or something, makes tons of money buying and selling companies. Crowley explained it to Chuck and the guys one time but they didn't really follow."

"Oh?" Aziraphale replied, feigning casualness as he took a bite of pot pie. He thought of hand-me-down sweaters and peanut butter sandwiches and purposefully lost permission slips for too-expensive field trips. "That must be nice, having that much spending money."

"You'd think, but…" Brian cleared his throat and leaned in. "Look, don't bring this up around them or anything, but Crowley's...kind of wild, man. Got in some trouble a while ago, and his dad must've paid off the cops or something." At the horrified look on Aziraphale's face, he shook his head. "Nothing like...he didn't murder anyone or anything. Just some drugs, some breaking and entering, that kind of thing. Chuck says some of his other friends, not the band, those dudes are really bad news, but Crowley isn't that bad. And he throws a great rager."

It was a lot to process. Aziraphale schooled his features into bland neutrality and steered Brian away from the subject of Crowley with questions about Rachelle. His friend was all too happy to talk about his girlfriend (and he was genuinely curious about her). Brian's chatter combined with stuffing his own face full of chicken and flaky breading gave him a moment to lock what he'd learned away for later perusal. (He was good at composing himself in the face of strong emotions, if he did say so...it sort of came with the territory of door-to-door evangelizing and being a middle child in a large family.)

When he'd finished up his classwork for the day, he made a quick stop at his dorm to water Oscar Wilde and grab _Metamorphoses_, then headed to the library. After Anathema handed him tea and set out a plate of chocolate biscuits, he handed her the beautiful volume. She gasped and ahhed over its navy leather covers and the oil painting illustrations of gods, monsters, and mortals as he explained that a friend had loaned it to him.

"I thought you'd like it. The artistry is impeccable. But, there's something...could I ask you for your advice on something?"

"Is this about your friend?" she replied, a knowing look in her eyes as she handed the book back to him.

"Well, yes. He's a friend of a friend's friend, and our mutual acquaintance informed me today of some...not so good things he's done in the past."

"Wait, I'm getting confused over who is whose friend. Does this...does he have a name?"

"Um...Crowley. Well, Anthony, but he goes by his last name."

Anathema's eyebrows shot up behind her large round glasses. "I know that name. Is his father Lucien Crowley?"

"I don't know his name, only that he's some very successful businessman, according to Brian."

She whistled. "I bet it's him, all right! Here, I have…" Anathema bolted up and went over to a stack of magazines, rummaging through the pile until she found the issue she was looking for and handed it to him. "His dad's not just _a _businessman, he's, like, _the _businessman. Made his fortune buying and dismantling the competition. At any given point, he's under investigation for all sorts of ethics violations and bribery charges, but it doesn't seem to have had any effect."

The man on the cover of the magazine was handsome, his wavy blond hair slicked back and a cocky, smirking grin on his face that Aziraphale had seen before on his son's face. In all caps, the headline beside him declared: "IS THIS THE FACE OF THE FUTURE OF BUSINESS?" He flipped to the corresponding page number and skimmed the article:

_As global competition heats up, one man is taking the mergers and acquisitions world by storm. Lucien Crowley, head of Morningstar Corporation, is riding a boom tide of profits after his company's latest success _… _Some question Crowley's methods, claiming that working conditions and salaries have declined after their companies were bought out. Some even claim that they were refused contracted pensions and bonuses _… _accused of shady deals with offshore investors tied to third-world human rights atrocities. But there's no question: Whatever game he's playing, Crowley is winning._

"Oh my…" Aziraphale said quietly, handing the magazine back to Anathema. "How terrible for Crowley. Er, the son, I mean. He did mention his parents aren't home very much. And if that's his role model, well."

"And you're friends with him, the son?"

"Well, I suppose so. We've only met a few times, but he was kind enough to show me the library at his house when I attended a party there recently…" At the hungry look in Anathema's eyes, Aziraphale laughs. "Yes, it was absolutely magnificent. Imagine a room full of volumes of this quality. I didn't want to leave."

He set aside his tea and folded his hands tightly in his lap. "And, well, I haven't ever really had all that many friends, especially if you don't count my siblings. Mary, from Theology, and I get on well, and there are Brian and Heather, but…"

"But you're worried about what Crowley thinks of you?"

"Yes!" he blurted out, eyes wide. "I don't know, he just seems so much more _worldly_ and posh than I am, and that's fine, he hasn't made a big deal of his family's wealth, but I want to thank him for the book somehow, and I have no idea what would be interesting to him."

There's a flash of a knowing look in Anathema's eyes, but it's gone in a moment before he can truly process it. "Well, then, you know he likes to read. What else do you know about him?"

Aziraphale gives her a brief recounting of the times they've met. From what he can tell, Crowley likes loud music, plants, and classic literature. When Anathema suggests perhaps Aziraphale ask him to a show, he shakes his head. While he knows Crowley likes creating music, he's not sure how the other man feels about going to shows. (Perhaps, like a master chef, he'd rather cook at home than go to other restaurants.)

Anathema thinks for a moment, then rummages around for a phone book and excuses herself to make a call at the phone on her desk. Aziraphale reaches for his tea and occupies himself with draining the cup, trying not to eavesdrop. After she hangs up the phone, Anathema grabs a pamphlet as she dashes out of her office, then returns with a photocopy that she hands to him.

"I think this could be perfect! It isn't too expensive, with a student pass, and they're only doing it for a few weekends before it moves on."

On the paper is an advertisement for an event at a botanical garden and art museum. Admission provides access to both venues and a special display of tropical flowers—including the anticipated blooming of one of the world's only corpse plants.

"Those are _super _rare," Anathema says, nodding at the flyer. "There's only five or so cultivated each year worldwide, and they only bloom once every seven years or so. How about it?"

"Oh, Anathema, it's _perfect_." He'll have to scrounge up his pocket money, and perhaps borrow some from Brian, but he'll figure something out.

* * *

A few days later (and a loan from his roommate, who thankfully doesn't pry and just laughs when he says the money is for an art museum), Aziraphale calls the number on the flyer and purchases two tickets to the event, to be picked up at the will-call window at the art museum.

Classwork distracts him from calling Crowley, and it would be a bit of a relief but for the absolute _pile _of assignments. _The Metamorphoses _will fit perfectly into his theology essay comparing different cultures' perceptions of God, at least, but the paper requires a minimum of ten primary sources, so he's stuck in the library after class most of the week. Even with Anathema's help, he has dozens of books to look through. And when he's not working on his essay, his math homework seems to have gotten more complicated overnight, the problems taking longer than before as they learn increasingly complex formulas. (He's worn his pencil erasers to nubs, and the keys on his pocket calculator now stick from overuse.)

Fencing has to be the worst, though. A few of his classmates have adjusted to his left handedness, and unfortunately for him they're all in much better physical shape than him. After watching him huff and puff and strain through the jogging and agility work, the instructor pulled him aside to ask if he has asthma and needs his inhaler. When he shook his head no, she frowned at him and suggested he try to get some exercise outside of class.

As soon as class ended, he didn't bother to change out of his gym clothes and strode as quickly as he could back to his dorm. Heather was there, watching _Jeopardy!_, but she sat upright with a frown when she saw his face. "What happened, 'Zira? Dude, are you okay?"

"Yes, I just…" he sighed, out of breath and so very embarrassed. "My fencing teacher told me I need to lose some weight. And now I just feel awful."

"No shit! I would feel that way too, if someone called _me _fat! What a bitch!" Her heavily lined eyes widen in anger as Brian barges in, hauling his backpack and skateboard.

"Who's a bitch this time, Heather?"

Aziraphale gives him a quick recap of his fencing lesson, and soon he's as outraged as Heather. The descriptions and epithets they call her are entirely un-Christian, but utterly hilarious, and soon they're laughing too hard to choke out more.

As Aziraphale wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes, Heather slaps a hand on his shoulder and looks at him, her mouth twitching in the remains of a grin. "But seriously, 'Zira, I'm gonna tell you exactly what one of _my _friends told me, when my parents said I should stop dressing like this and fix my hair and stop listening to 'that awful noise', as they called my absolute favorite music: You're fine just like you are."

"Yeah, man, don't worry about it. People can be raging asshats, y'know? You just gotta...keep being you."

The tears in his eyes now aren't from laughter, but from the overwhelming sense of gratitude he has for these people, his friends. "Oh, I don't...thank you," he croaks out, clearing his throat in embarrassment and looking anywhere but at him.

"Hey, you know what we should do for dinner? Let's call Dave and go to the drive-thru. I could eat like a million fries right now. Fuck that bitch," Heather declared, standing up and tugging her skirt into place.

"You know what, you're right." Aziraphale said, the gloom lifting from his heart. "...Fuck her."

Brian and Heather gasped and freaked out (Heather practically screeching in delight) at hearing Aziraphale swear for the first time that he can remember. He's not going to make a habit of it...but just this once, it felt good.

As good as the cheeseburger, fries, and milkshake that they treat him to at the drive-thru taste.

* * *

The next night, he found a payphone booth near the student center and dialed the number on the slip of paper with shaking hands.

"Hello, Crowley residence," a woman's voice said. "If this is a business matter, you can reach Lucien at his office tomorrow."

"Oh, I, er, no, it isn't," he garbled out, caught off-guard. "I'm trying to reach Crowley—er, Anthony Crowley, his s-son?"

"Oh, let me see if he's here. Excuse me," she replied, setting down the phone with a thunk before he can answer. _She must be Crowley's mother_, he thinks, before there's a click on the line.

"Wuzzit, who's this?" Crowley said, voice raspy.

"It's, er, me, Aziraphale, hello," he replied, twining the metal curls of the payphone cord around his fingers. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, no, just working on something in the studio downstairs. Ma, you can hang up the phone now," he said, his voice suddenly colder. Aziraphale hadn't realized she was back on the line, but a light click confirms Crowley's suspicion. "Geez, that woman. Right pain in the neck. So, what can I do for you? You can't be finished with the book already, even a big brain like you."

"Not quite, but only because my classwork is absolute insanity right now. It's coming in quite handy for one of my assignments, though. Thank you again for letting me borrow it."

"'Course, angel, any time." Crowley coughed, the sound of a chair squeaking down the line. "I'm not worried you're going to run off with it or anything, if that's why you called. I know where to find you."

"Oh, yes, that's right, well...you see, I was w-wondering…" He fell silent, gripping the phone cord in a tight hold, and fighting off the panic pressing his chest like the heaviest stone. _I can't I can't do this I really can't_, he thought, trying to breathe. He heard Crowley say something but he can't hear anything over the rushing sound in his ears...and then, a tiny thought cut through the fog of panic: _But...what if I do it anyway?_

"Wouldyouwanttogotothebotanicalgardenwithme?" Aziraphale blurted out over whatever Crowley was saying.

The line was utterly silent, except for the sound of breathing, for far too many seconds, and then Crowley let out an amused snort. "I'm not going to lie, I didn't understand anything you just said."

A nervous giggle bubbled up from Aziraphale's chest, and he can't help but let out a laugh. "I'm sorry, that _was_ completely incomprehensible, wasn't it? Let me try again. There's this show at the botanical gardens next weekend, with the art museum, and they're going to have a corpse plant blooming. I thought, well, since you like plants, I got tickets, and do you want to go?"

There was a rustling noise on Crowley's end, like the phone speaker being covered up, and after a few more moments he wasn't sure if Crowley had hung up on him or something had happened with the connection—but then:

"Are you asking me out?"

"No! O-of course not, don't be silly," he stammered, the terror back in his chest and an icy fear in his belly. "I just w-wanted to do something nice, to say thank you for letting me borrow Ovid, that's all!"

"Oh...sorry, I just…'course, I'd love to," Crowley said with a cough. "I wasn't…'s not...what time izzit, then? I can pick you up, if you like?"

"It's at, er, let me check...five, next Saturday, if that's all right?"

"Sounds like a plan, then. Not every day a guy gets asked to go see a flower that smells like rotting meat, after all," he replied with a teasing tone. "I can pay you back, for my ticket?"

"No, it's my treat, really. I'll...see you Saturday, then."

"See you then, angel. G'night."

After he put up the phone, Aziraphale stood frozen in the booth, trying to process what had just happened.

Outside, a couple walking past were startled by the exuberant shout of triumph that suddenly sounded from the phone booth nearby.


	8. A friend who's a man

Aziraphale wasn't prepared for the sheer anxiety of the next two days. Between the massive quantity of classwork he had to get started on and his nerves about Saturday, he felt like a helium balloon barely tethered to the ground, about to drift away in the gusty wind that whipped across the campus.

At dinner, Brian watched him shuffle spaghetti around his plate before asking him (between mouthfuls of his own pasta) if everything was all right. He shrugged off his roommate's concern, using the excuse of the pre-finals stress (which was true, if not perhaps the entire truth).

What Brian had told him about Crowley the other day was also rattling around in his mind, after his nervousness about phoning Crowley had died down a bit. _Just some drugs, some breaking and entering, _Brian had said, but it was serious enough to have the police (and his father) involved. Maybe he was getting in over his head, tempted by a pretty face and not seeing Crowley as what he really is, bad news in a pair of leather trousers. Or worse...this could be some sort of elaborate prank. It wouldn't be entirely surprising, that someone with money and talent and a predilection for mischief would decide that he, Aziraphale, was a prime target...

_No_, he thought,shaking his head to halt the spiral of doubt that he'd slipped into so easily. _All I have is hearsay from Brian, and he's been perfectly polite to me. Mostly. _Even if Crowley had done any of those things out of some delight or seeking a destructive release, _everyone _deserved a second chance. If there was any part of his faith he wholeheartedly believed in, it was redemption. And the Crowley he knew wasn't that person.

When he's alone in their dorm room, he speaks these thoughts aloud quietly to Oscar Wilde. He still hasn't told Brian, or Heather, or even Anathema, how he really thinks of Crowley. And besides, he reminds himself, Crowley likely only sees him as a curiosity worthy of companionable interest but nothing more.

When Saturday finally came, he woke early, then managed to get another half hour of fitful sleep before he gave up and slipped to the dining hall for breakfast. The room was almost completely empty, many students still in bed or home for the weekend, and he sipped cup after cup of green tea by the large glass window, watching the frost fade from the lawn. Normally he'd go for waffles or crepes or something equally rich and syrupy on a Saturday morning, but his stomach was roiling too much for more than a simple bowl of oatmeal with some brown sugar and dried fruit.

Even eating slowly while reading his theology assignment (or rather, trying to focus enough to read), he finished his meal far too soon. He wasted another few hours in the library with _Metamorphoses_, but by noon he was nodding off over the text and decided to head back to his room for a nap, catching Brian on his way out to lunch.

He woke feeling a bit better and more rested—until he remembered that he only had an hour until Crowley arrived to pick him up.

He darted upright, struggling to escape the blankets tangled around his limbs. Across the room with his headphones on as he flipped through a comic book, Brian was startled by the movement, flailing and getting equally caught in the cord of his headphones before managing to get them off. "Whoa, dude, you scared the crap out of me!"

"Oh, sorry, I just realized I only have an hour to get ready!"

"You got a hot date or something?" Aziraphale's denial was almost on his tongue when he felt his cheeks heating in a blush. "You do, don't you?!"

"It isn't a _date_, it's…" He rifled through his closet, looking for a suitable outfit and deliberately avoiding eye contact with Brian. His mind scrambled for something plausible _other _than a date and decided that sticking close to the truth would be the easiest. "I'm just hanging out with a friend, but I'm not very good at this. I mean, you and Heather are my friends, but I'm still not...oh, _what_ am I going to wear?!"

Brian, saint that he was, decided to take pity on him. "What are you talking about? You're a great friend. You help me with homework all the time, and you've been to every one of Heather's exhibits this semester. You even let Rachelle hang out here." Now Brian was the one avoided eye contact, embarrassed at the mention of his girlfriend. But he recovered quickly and got up to help Aziraphale dig through his clothes. "Just be yourself, man. People really appreciate that, at least the ones who aren't lame. You gonna be inside or outside?"

"Um, a bit of both, I think? And it's quite gloomy out."

"Okay, so sweater and maybe a light jacket, sounds like a plan. No tie though." After a few more moments of inspecting the closet's contents, he grabbed a deep burgundy shawl collar sweater and handed it to Aziraphale.

"Oh, I forgot I had this! It's one of my favorites." It had been a gift from one of his siblings a few Christmases ago, and it still smelled like home. With slim-fitting khaki chinos, Brian's black boots, and his olive-grey field coat, he thought he looked highly presentable. Brian punched his shoulder playfully and grinned over his shoulder as he fixed his hair in the mirror.

"See? It's easy. She'll think you're hot."

"For the last time, this is _not a date_!" Aziraphale grumbled, sighing. "But...thank you."

He was still fussing with his hair when he caught the sound of tires squealing outside, followed by the obnoxious honk of a car horn. Rolling his eyes, he peeked out the window to see Crowley's Porsche. Straightening his jacket, he grabbed his umbrella and the directions he'd written down earlier, nodded to Brian (who raised an eyebrow at him but told him to have a good night in a tone that said he knew Aziraphale was absolutely full of it), and made his way downstairs.

Outside, Aziraphale exhaled a shaky breath before opening the car door and sliding in next to Crowley, who was fiddling with the radio dials but looked up to grin at him. "Hello there, angel. Don't you look all spiffy."

Aziraphale looked down at his outfit as he buckled his seatbelt, then over at Crowley. "Thanks. Um, you look nice as well." A fitted black suit coat with rolled sleeves had replaced his usual leather jacket over a white t-shirt (with someone's face on it Aziraphale didn't recognize), and his jeans were fairly hole-free. The front of his hair was pulled back into a small bun, keeping its waves out of his face. "Here, I wrote down the directions to the botanical garden. We have to stop at the Will Call desk for the tickets."

Crowley gave him a thin-lipped grin, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and took the paper with a snort. "Perfectly legible, of course. That makes one of us," he said as he started the car. "Hrm, I think I know where this is, 's about twenty minutes." As he hit the gas and sped out of the parking lot, Aziraphale closed his eyes and prayed silently until he felt a thin finger prod his shoulder. "Here, shotgun navigates. In case I get us lost in the bad part of town or something."

Aziraphale eyes shot back open and he snatched the paper with one hand while the other gripped his seatbelt. "I sincerely hope you're kidding. I would like to make it through this adventure in one piece, please."

Crowley laughed, easing off the gas ever so slightly. "From what you've told me about your dad, I don't think he'd take kindly to me dismembering his son via traffic accident. Did y'know flying is actually safer than driving? Eh, 's probably because of maniacs like me on the road."

"I don't doubt it. You're...a menace." Aziraphale said tentatively, hoping he didn't offend. He wasn't used to the bantering friendliness that so many of his peers here seemed to employ. At home, he had to be polite no matter what (as his father so often had to remind Ruth when she blew raspberries behind the back of one of the church's many senior-aged ladies who cooed over her).

"Ha! That I am, angel, that I am." For the rest of the drive, Crowley pointed out different restaurants and other buildings, giving Aziraphale an impromptu tour of this unfamiliar part of the city.

"...and that's where I used to hang out early in high school. Used to sneak in for shows, got thrown out when they figured out I was in there, then I'd come back the next weekend and try again."

"Have you ever played there?" _Did Crowley know how much his face lit up, when he was talking about music?_ Aziraphale thought, smiling to himself.

"A few times. 'S funny, everything was exactly like I remember it—except for getting kicked out, 'course." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and hummed in time with the music.

"This is catchy, who is this?" Aziraphale said, bobbing his head a bit in time with the beat.

To his credit, Crowley didn't snort or scoff at him—instead, he reached over to pop open the glove box, digging around until he found a cassette case and handed it to Aziraphale (mostly watching the road, which Aziraphale also appreciated). Along the edges of a black and white photograph of a man smashing a guitar on the ground were the words "The Clash" and "LONDON CALLING".

"Hm, The Clash…" he said, turning the case to inspect the track list.

"Used to be 'The Only Band That Matters', but not so much lately. Too much drama, new guitarists and all. But this album and Combat Rock are pretty great. Definitely should give them a listen as part of your 'bebop' education, yeah?"

Soon both of them were bobbing along with the beat of the next few songs, laughing at each other's ridiculous faces (Aziraphale looked perpetually wide-eyed and faux-shocked, while Crowley waggled his head on his shoulders like it was about to fall off). Aziraphale almost forgot that he was being chauffeured by a speed demon until Crowley swore and jerked the car into a screeching left turn through an intersection.

"Shit, almost missed it! You're kind of a shit navigator. Maybe I'll make you drive back so I can get us there."

Holding on for dear life, Aziraphale was about to reply that he didn't know how to drive when he spotted the giant glass dome of the garden's main building. Crowley pulled up to the valet stand and hopped out to toss the keys to the attendant. As Aziraphale clambered out of his seat, he caught bits of his warning (accompanied by emphatic waves of his arms) to the driver about what would happen to him if his car came back in any shape other than pristine. The man seemed terrified of whatever Crowley had said, but Aziraphale just rolled his eyes at Crowley's theatrics and patted his pockets to make sure he had his wallet.

"Ah, I think the ticket window is this way?" Aziraphale said when Crowley finished watching the attendant drive the Porsche away. Crowley followed him at a slow, casual amble, neither of them speaking as they waited in line and then received their passes and a schedule of the night's events.

"Hm, looks like the corpse plant should be later tonight, which gives plenty of time to wander. D'you want to do the art museum at all? I'm sure you're more interested in the plants." Aziraphale looked up from the guide to ask.

"Let's go stroll 'round the garden for a bit, then we can go ogle the art if we're still waiting on the titan, yeah?" At Aziraphale's confused look, Crowley sighed good-naturedly and grabbed his arm, dragging him towards the gates of the garden. "C'mon, I'll give you a crash course in _Amorphophallus titanum _as we go."

To get to the giant glass structure, they had to walk through a tunnel formed by giant metal arches bedecked with brilliant orange-leafed branches and hardy evergreen plants twined with stalks of round red berries.

Craning his neck to get a glimpse of all the plants as they walked, Aziraphale felt himself relax just a tiny bit. _So far, so good_, he thought, and then they went through a small glass cube with pressurized doors that let them into the dome with a hiss of humid air.

The room was massive, the far end hidden by the fronds of tropical palms and lush trees. Graveled walkways twined through islands displaying collections of plants: vivid orchids, delicate pink roses, fragrant lavender, gauzy Spanish moss, and so many other plants Aziraphale couldn't even begin to name. From somewhere came the melodic rush and tinkle of water, and he spied a small pond fed by a waterfall nearby, in which fat koi were swimming. And above, the darkening sky's twilight hues were visible through the dome's ceiling.

"Wow," said Crowley beside him, and Aziraphale looked to him. "Y'know, I haven't been here in, lessee, probably ten years? Was in school way back. But I'd forgotten how gorgeous it is."

"It is lovely," Aziraphale agreed, with a soft smile. "Shall we?"


	9. Feeding the koi

As they walked, Crowley pointed out different plants to Aziraphale, giving their Latin names and their native climates. As they studied the Laelia orchids that had caught Aziraphale's eye with their unnaturally bright hue, Crowley explained that over 30,000 species of orchids could be found almost all around the world, except for Antarctica and some deserts. Nearby were rubber trees (_Ficus elastica_) whose leaves dripped from their recent watering from misters overhead.

Brassy chirps sounded from above, where sparrows and other small birds had snuck their way in to nest at the treetops near the heat and light of the ceiling, and Crowley scowled up at them. "Nasty things. Only good bird's a duck."

"What about eagles? They're quite majestic."

"Oh, sure," Crowley replied. "Eagles, falcons, they're fine. Not like they're going to swoop down and shit on you for fun while you're walking along the street."

"Wait, have you…" Aziraphale trailed off, trying to hide his mirth and biting his lip at the mental image of Crowley shaking his fist at a flock of city sparrows.

Flailing a bit, Crowley accidentally thwacked a plant and crossed his arms moodily instead. "It was one time! I was supposed to meet my ma for lunch and one of the winged rats they call pigeons decided it was an excellent time to befoul my jacket."

A small bubble of laughter escaped Aziraphale's lips, and then it was too late: he cracked up, laughing in big guffaws until his sides hurt and his eyes were watering. Crowley frowned at him, trying to stay grumpy, but his mouth twitched up at the corner just slightly at the other's amusement over his predicament.

"I'm s-sorry, it's just...whew, sorry," Aziraphale croaked out when he'd managed to pull himself together. "I wasn't laughing at you...all right, I was. You're the only person I know who hates _birds_."

"'S not _just_ birds. I also hate the word 'mauve', for example. No, you're not allowed to ask," Crowley said, cutting Aziraphale off as he opened his mouth. "What about you?"

"Oh, I don't know...peanut butter, I guess?"

"Wait—" Crowley halts in the middle of the gravel path, holding up a hand. "You hate _peanut butter_? Are you human?"

"Says the man who hates _birds. _And _mauve_."

"Well, peanut butter never dropped a bomb all over my favorite coat!"

"Hmph," Aziraphale grumbled. "I just don't like it. It's too sticky and it makes my mouth dry."

When they made their way to the koi pond, Crowley rummaged around his coat pockets and pulled out several quarters so they could each get a handful of fish food from the dispenser. They sat on the stone edge of the pond where the fish writhed in a blur of orange and white, vying for the dry brown pellets from them and the handful of other people watching the fish.

"Greedy little things, aren't they?" Aziraphale said with a laugh as he sprinkled a dash of pellets into the water and got splashed for his trouble as the koi gobbled them up. "They remind me of Ruth's goldfish at home. That thing eats like it's never been fed before. Although it's mostly Luke and I who feed it. She gets distracted and forgets."

"D'you like it, having siblings?" Crowley asked him, lobbing a few pellets to the far side of the pond to watch the fish race over to devour them.

"Oh my, yes. Michael and Judith are much older, and I've never been very close with either of them. I mostly see them and their families at holidays. But Luke is my best friend, and Ruth is wonderful, even though as I mentioned, she's quite the troublemaker. She's in confession every other day, it seems. Father makes her do chores as penance, though, so at least her room gets tidied up now and again. What about you, do you ever wish you had brothers and sisters?"

"Nah," Crowley replied with a shrug, dumping the last crumbs of fish food into the pond and wiping his hands clean on his trousers. "I mean, when I was younger, sure. It was just me and Maude, our housekeeper, for the longest time. Ma and dear old dad weren't home much back then, either. They wanted to send me to boarding school halfway 'cross the country and I pitched a fit to stay at home. I had friends at school, and can you see me, all buttoned up in a jacket and tie and whatnot?"

"I don't know, I think you'd look quite respectable in a suit," Aziraphale said, preoccupied with evenly distributing his remaining fish food pellets and missing the faint blush that spread across Crowley's cheeks at his remark.

"Hah, I'd get kicked out in a week, tops. Maybe that's why my parents decided to stop at one kid. 'There can only be one!' and all that." At Aziraphale's blank look, he sighed patiently. "It's from a movie called Highlander. We really need to work on your pop culture exposure, angel. It's a travesty."

Aziraphale was about to reply when an announcement crackled from speakers hidden nearby. _"Ladies and gentlemen, the corpse plant is expected to begin blooming in one hour. Please enjoy the gardens and museum for the next sixty minutes, then make your way to the atrium at the rear of the main garden to attend this special event."_

"Time for the museum, then?" Aziraphale asked, and they made their way outside, where thick clouds had obscured the remainder of the sunset. Thankfully, the path to the art museum was well-lit with small spotlights. Dotted near the path were abstract sculptures framed by arrangements of plants in an intricate melding of natural and human-shaped lines. Neither said much as they strolled in a comfortable silence that felt like a balm to Aziraphale's frazzled nerves. The night was beautiful and Crowley was beside him, and when a group passed them on the path and Crowley scooched over to give them space, his shoulder pressed against Aziraphale's. He was immediately aware of the contact, and his shoulder tingled with warmth under the layers of clothing where Crowley had touched him.

In contrast to the lush, organic gardens, the art museum was all empty white space, clean right angles, and bright lights. They didn't have nearly enough time to see everything in only an hour, and compromised by agreeing to spend half of their time in the European gallery (Aziraphale's request) and half in the modern art one. The comfortable silence remained as they perused the Dutch merchant paintings and time-worn furnishings and curios from Europe's wealthy families from centuries ago.

"You know," Aziraphale confessed in a quiet whisper as they studied one painting of a wealthy family from the late 1500s, "The reason I like these portraits so much is that the subjects always look so put out to have their likeness painted. Not to mention the animals, poor things." He pointed to the family dog, painted at its master's feet. Its face looked like the artist had tried to paint the snout and jaw of a canine, then given up and added human-like features instead. "I don't think this man had ever seen a real dog in his life."

Crowley choked on a sudden burst of laughter that sounded like a sneeze, causing an older couple nearby to frown and harumph at the loud noise. Aziraphale shushed him, grinning.

The modern art collection was far less amusing but still interesting. Aziraphale didn't know much about modern art beyond Pollock and Warhol. Here, there was variety: shades and shapes used in ways the Dutch portrait artists would never have dared to attempt. Many of the paintings depicted nude women, or at least certain parts of them; when he averted his eyes to study the plaque of one such Klimt artwork, he noticed the donors listed:_ Lucien & Helene Crowley._

The sight reminded him of the article Anathema had shown him, and he sighed, eyes finding Crowley where he was looking at a sculpture made of waxed red yarn across the room. Aziraphale stared, studying the lines of Crowley's jaw, noticing the strands of copper hair that had escaped the bun to frame his face, the slope of his shoulders. He forced himself to look away, lest he get caught, but then moments later, he found his eyes on Crowley again.

His luck ran out, however, when Crowley's eyes (or rather, sunglasses) met his. Before he could look away, though, Crowley did, as though _he _had been the one found out staring. Aziraphale was confused, but turned away to compose himself, clasping his hands behind his back and peering at the Klimt as though he'd never looked away.

A few minutes later, the museum announced that the corpse plant was almost in full bloom, and they wandered back to the entrance...only to find that the skies had opened into a downpour.

"Here, give me the umbrella, I'm taller," Crowley said, his voice sounding loud to Aziraphale after the quiet of the gallery. "Hold onto my sleeve and we'll make a run for it. Ready?"

Aziraphale nodded, Crowley popped open the umbrella, and they burst through the door, splashing down the path in a brisk, frantic sprint for the garden entrance. Out of breath, Aziraphale clutched Crowley's jacket tightly and kept pace with the other man's lanky stride, and in a few moments they had made it to the dry safety of the gardens.

The crowded press of bodies near the entrance to the annex holding the corpse flower seemed impenetrable, but Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hand and pulled him through and around people until they had made it to the far side of the room, just along the rope protecting the plant. Distracted by the grip of Crowley's hand in his own, Aziraphale didn't notice the smell at first.

The massive plant in front of him had to be at least 10 feet high. The center, tall and green, was reminiscent of a large, unshucked ear of corn, surrounded by a collar of one giant, purple-red petal. But as striking as the corpse plant looked, its stench was practically indescribable, a putrid combination of Limburger cheese, rotten fish, and feces, with a sickly sweetness that made Aziraphale's stomach churn.

"Urgh," he coughed out, eyes watering.

But Crowley didn't seem to notice the smell as much. His mouth hung open in awe. "It's gorgeous," he said quietly, staring rapt at the malodorous flower. "_Amorphophallus titanum_. Blooms for just one night. I…thank you, Aziraphale."

Not "angel" this time, but "Aziraphale". His name. A warmth curled through him that chased the nausea away, and he beamed back at Crowley, who gave him a small, genuine smile before turning back to study the plant.

When the smell became unbearable for them both, they pushed back through the crowd to the main gardens, breathing deep to cleanse the death-like stench from their noses.

"That was amazing, but I never want to smell that ever again," Crowley said, gulping in the clean, filtered air. "I can practically taste it. Blergh." He smacked his lips and stuck out his tongue.

"Me too, it's absolutely disgusting. Maybe they have a water fountain or something?" Luckily, they did, and both of them gulped down mouthfuls of biting-cold water that seemed to do the trick.

"Well, the night is young, angel. You up for dinner after that?" Crowley dug around in his pocket for the valet ticket as they made their way outside, huddled under Aziraphale's umbrella again.

"I think I'll be able to eat by the time we get anywhere. What, er, did you have in mind?"

"Hmm," Crowley hummed after the valet pulled up with the Porsche. He gave it a quick inspection before they got in. "What are you in the mood for? There's a few good places near here, I think."

"Oh, I'll eat pretty much anything," Aziraphale said, suddenly nervous again. The night had gone well so far, and he didn't want it to end just yet.

"Except peanut butter, right?" Crowley replied with a quick smile, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. "You a fan of sushi?"

"I've...never had it," Aziraphale admitted, looking down at his hands in his lap before glancing back up at the man beside him. "But I think I'd like to try it."

Again, Crowley didn't gasp or act surprised at this revelation, to Aziraphale's relief. Instead, he nodded, declared, "Sushi it is!" and started the car.

On the breakneck drive, Aziraphale wanted to ask how in the world Crowley could see anything from behind his sunglasses, but it seemed rude somehow to point them out. Perhaps, he thought as he clung to his seatbelt in terror, there was something wrong with his eyes that he didn't like to talk about. Or perhaps, like his own cross necklace, they were a talisman, a cherished accessory that he didn't like to part with.

They made it to the sushi restaurant without incident. Inside, they sat at the counter opposite the refrigerated cuts of various fish. The waitress, a tiny elderly woman, handed them cups of earthy green tea that chased away the chill of the rainy night, then left them to peruse the menu.

"D'you know what you want?" Crowley asked after a few minutes.

"Ah, I, um…" Aziraphale replied, overwhelmed by the long list of rolls and unsure of the difference between nigiri and sashimi. Sensing his discomfort, Crowley moved his stool closer to peer at Aziraphale's menu. He explained the ingredients and helped Aziraphale choose two rolls to try, a simple California roll and a more adventurous option containing spicy tuna, eel, and shrimp tempura.

After they'd placed their orders, they chatted about Ovid. When Aziraphale mentioned his next upcoming fencing bout, Crowley was fascinated and peppered him with questions about the swords, postures, and rules until their dinner arrived.

"All right, angel. That green stuff is wasabi, bit like horseradish, kind of spicy. The pink stuff is ginger, you want to eat a bit of that if you switch between rolls. You used chopsticks before?"

When he shook his head no, Crowley cracked a pair apart and took his hand, curling his fingers around each stick and helping him mimic the grabbing motion. Once he'd watched Aziraphale click the chopsticks together a few times in practice, he demonstrated on his own sushi, deftly grabbing a piece, dipping it in soy sauce, and stuffing it into his mouth, chewing with a happy sigh. "Shee, it's eashy," he garbled through his mouthful of fish and rice, cheeks bulging.

"If you say so," Aziraphale replied, looking down at his own plate. After a few tries that destroyed the first piece of sushi, he was able to lean forward and sort of shovel a piece of the spicy roll into his mouth.

"Oh my, that is...heavenly," he said, eyes wide with surprise as he swallowed. "I had no idea raw fish could be this delicious!"

Crowley laughed and crammed more sushi into his own mouth, and Aziraphale followed suit with gusto.

* * *

As they pulled up to the dorm, what was left of Aziraphale's nerves morphed into an odd sort of melancholy. The wonderful night was over, and he didn't know when he'd see Crowley again, other than to return his book.

"Hey," Crowley said suddenly, cutting through his thoughts. "D'you want to come over sometime this week, to my place? Nothing special, but we could start your pop culture education with a movie. I could swing by, pick you up?" He looked nervous, and for some strange reason that set Aziraphale at ease.

"That sounds fun, but this week is finals prep, and it's going to be hell. I wish I could. Unless you wouldn't mind if I brought my things over to study first?"

"Y'know what, what're you up to on Tuesday 'round six? The band's coming over that night, so I could come get you and you could finish your homework while we rehearse."

"That would...work perfectly, actually. I'm out of class early that day. See you Tuesday then?"

"Yep. I'll give you a call when I'm headed your way."

As Aziraphale turned to open his door, a tug on his sleeve made him turn back. Crowley had leaned across the seat to grab his jacket.

"Hey, angel, thanks. I had a good night."

The smile Aziraphale gave him was shy but radiant. "Me too. Get home safe, okay? Maybe only ten miles over the speed limit?"

Crowley laughed and let go of his sleeve. "No promises, angel. 'Til Tuesday, then."

"Good night, Crowley."

"G'night, angel."


	10. An excellent movie

After his classes on Tuesday, Aziraphale went to the library to make photocopies of the remaining primary source texts for his theology essay. The hum and flash of the Xerox machine lulled him with its repetition and his mind wandered.

Brian had, of course, questioned him about his evening when he'd gotten back, but Aziraphale had remained mum—even when Heather joined the interrogation and began suggesting girls she'd seen him interact with in any capacity over the months. After, barely able to speak through her laughter, she suggested the rather grumpy mailroom director (who was at least old enough to be his mother), he'd finally sighed and admitted it was Crowley he'd invited to the garden to repay him for loaning him a book. He wasn't quite sure _why_ he hadn't wanted to tell them he was spending time with Crowley in the first place. He tried to tell himself it was because of his conversation with Brian the other day, but that wasn't _really_ it.

"Whoa, Crowley?" Brian asked, eyebrows shooting up to practically disappear under his hairline. "Is that why you were asking about him last week?"

"Yes, I spoke with him at the party, and he loaned me a book I decided to use for my theology paper," Aziraphale explained. "I, er, thought I'd repay the favor." (_Not a date_, his mind helpfully supplied, and Aziraphale told it to shush.)

"Look at you, hanging out with the local badass!" Heather interjected, slinging an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and rustling his hair. "Well, the other local badass. I'm obviously _the _local badass."

"Hey man, about what I told you...I hope I didn't cause any problems. I'm sure he's a nice dude. It's good to see you making some new friends, y'know?" Brian said, embarrassment plain in his normally placid expression.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Aziraphale replied, the heat warming his face belying his nonchalant tone. "I've run into him a few times, that's all."

After that, the conversation had turned to talk of finals—Heather's exhibit that would be a large portion of her total credit for her Introduction to Multimedia course, Brian's essay that was giving him trouble, and Aziraphale's upcoming fencing tournament.

The Xerox beeped a reminder, startling Aziraphale out of his reverie. He gathered his copies and bag and made his way towards the library exit, stopping at the front desk to thank Anathema again, profusely. He promised to tell her more about the gardens but excused himself to make sure he had time to grab dinner before Crowley picked him up. Before she could reply, he beat a hasty retreat. (If there was one downside to having friends, it was the growing number of people who were suddenly quite interested in his personal life. It was...a bit unsettling, if he was being honest. Unsettling, but also endearing.)

After a quick meal of fish and chips, Aziraphale packed the rest of his supplies in his bag and watered Oscar Wilde before heading down to sit on the steps of the building.

Outside, he burrowed his face into his scarf, warming his face with his breath as he waited for Crowley in the chilly twilight. After a few minutes, he got up to jostle some warmth back into his legs, cramming his hands into his coat pockets and doing a hopping, wobbling dance to heat up. A few cars passed, but none of them were Crowley, so he ignored them and kept moving.

And then, when he bobbled back forward, Crowley's car was there...and Crowley was watching him from inside, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

Feigning ignorance that the deep blush he felt on his cheeks could be from anything but the cold, Aziraphale grabbed his bag and sat carefully in the passenger seat, a study in aloofness.

Crowley chewed his lip silently for another moment, then choked out, "Got a bug in your britches?" before dissolving into laughter.

"Hmph," Aziraphale replied, brushing imaginary dust from his coat sleeve. "It's cold out there, thank _you_." Crowley just wiped away tears of mirth from under his sunglasses.

On the drive, Crowley told him about the show that The Doomsday Option was rehearsing for: a Battle of the Bands charity fundraiser at one of the largest venues in the city. The band had never played there before, but apparently Steve knew one of the A/V technicians. Aziraphale listened intently, his gaze resting on Crowley until he grew too self-aware and looked back out of the windshield. But inevitably, his eyes slid back over, usually to find Crowley looking at him instead of the road, and Aziraphale would flap a hand forward in admonishment to pay attention to driving.

* * *

Aziraphale drummed his ballpoint pen on his notebook, filled with crisp handwritten notes highlighted in a rainbow of colors and organized with matching sticky tabs that stuck out at the edges of the pages. He'd made good progress with the photocopies from earlier, organizing most of them into the different sections of his essay. The one he was busy reviewing was a wealth of useful information on comparing the concept of sacrifice and good works between the Greek mythos and the Bible, and he'd filled nearly four pages of his notebook with quotes.

When the grandfather clock at the end of the library toned out the half hour, Aziraphale stood for a good, back-cracking stretch. Crowley had given him directions to the basement studio, and he could use a break, so he closed his notebook and padded down the hall, trying to remember if it was left or right at the end.

He must have chosen the wrong door, because he rounded a corner to discover that he'd found his way to the kitchen. And sitting at the counter, glass of red wine in hand, was a woman.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, I was looking for the studio," he babbled out when the woman's green-eyed gaze landed on him.

"Who are you?" she asked bluntly, her sharp tone belying the looseness of her wrist as it swirled the wine in her glass, gold charm bracelets tinkling against each other. Her soft white sweater and pleated pants looked tremendously expensive, and her rich red hair was expertly styled.

"Aziraphale, it's a pleasure to meet you. You're Crow- Anthony's mother?" he asked, though he already knew the answer just from the familiar shade of her hair.

"Oh, you're the one who called the other night. Well," Helena Crowley said, holding out a thin, manicured hand for him to grasp in greeting, "you're not the kind of friend he usually has over."

"My roommate is a friend of Chuck's," Aziraphale stuttered, not sure what she was saying.

"Oh, that Chuck. Thick as thieves when they were younger, those two. And now this band…" She rolled her eyes as she took a sip of wine. "_You_ aren't in a band, are you? Or," she sniffed, "some kind of groupie?"

"N-no, Mrs. Crowley. I'm studying theology at the college."

"Really?" Her eyebrows raised as she studied him more closely. "Well. That's certainly new."

Before he could reply, she glanced down at the gold watch on her wrist. "I have to run, my car will be here in half an hour." She stood and pointed towards a door across the room. "Go through there to the end of the hall, then take the door on the left. Go all the way downstairs and through the door at the very end of the hall, and you'll find the studio."

"Thank you, Mrs. Crowley," he replied, but she just waved a hand and murmured "call me Helena" as she left.

With a renewed set of instructions, he made it to the studio without too much effort. He found himself inside a glass-walled sound booth, surrounded by control boards covered in buttons and dials. Crowley, Chuck, and the rest of the band were in the next room, its walls draped with sound-proof covering and its floor covered with heavy rugs under snaking black cords. Unnoticed, he watched as they discussed something, gesturing at the drums and peering at ragged notebooks.

His gaze was drawn to Crowley, sporting a baggy black tank top and a bun that kept his hair from his face, except a few wavy strands that had escaped—and, of course, his sunglasses. A bead of moisture ran down the side of his face ever-so-slowly as Aziraphale watched, until he wiped his forehead with the back of an arm.

Aziraphale bit his lip and felt his trousers start to become uncomfortably tight again. He shuffled, trying to adjust, but the movement caught Crowley's eye and the other man looked up. Aziraphale waved awkwardly and sent up a silent prayer that the booth's equipment was tall enough to hide the state of, well, his equipment at the moment.

When he felt safe moving, he made his way into the recording space. "Hey there, you fellas remember Aziraphale?" Crowley said by way of introduction as the band gathered their equipment. The others nodded and waved, and they all chatted amicably as they made their way back upstairs to where Chuck and the others had parked. (Aziraphale offered to help them carry some equipment and ended up lugging an amp up two floors, earning him his first-ever fist bump.) As the cars rolled out, Crowley blew dramatic air kisses at them until they disappeared down the hill.

He led Aziraphale back inside, with a request to meet back in the kitchen after he'd taken a quick shower and Aziraphale had gathered up his supplies from the library. Crowley disappeared up the stairs in the main hall, leaving Aziraphale to wander back to collect his books and notes.

It wasn't until he was almost finished that his brain helpfully supplied an image of Crowley _naked_, covered in soapy lather amid a steam-filled shower. Both aroused and shamefully embarrassed, he shook the thought from his head and concentrated on finding his way back to the kitchen without getting lost. He didn't know how Crowley and his family successfully navigated the place; perhaps he could get Crowley to draw him a map, the next time he visited. If (or when...) there was a next time.

He'd just sat on one of the stools at the counter when Crowley came in, damp hair slicked back and clinging to his nape. He was wearing a quite fitted grey long-sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to bunch at his elbows.

"Gah, that's much better," Crowley said as he combed a hand through his hair and padded barefoot over to a cupboard. "If it's okay, I'll just make one big, giant bowl of popcorn for us to share. I can eat my weight in the stuff."

"Yes, that's fine," Aziraphale replied. "Can I help with anything?"

Making a noise of triumph when his rummaging uncovered the popcorn, Crowley pointed to the refrigerator. "Grab us some drinks, yeah? Whatever 's fine for me."

It wasn't until the kernels were pinging loudly against the sides of the enormous stew pot on the stove that Aziraphale mentioned his earlier encounter.

"So, um, I met your mother earlier…" he said. "She seems pleasant. You two look quite a bit alike."

"Shit," Crowley replied with a grimace. "Ah, the lovely Helena Crowley. Wealthy socialite with no interests beyond spending money and nourishing her, well, _semi_-functional alcoholism. She didn't give you the third degree, did she? Might actually make it seem like she cared about who her son's spending time with."

"_Crowley_," Aziraphale admonished, "she's your mother, be kind."

"Oh, I am," he replied as he scooped out popped kernels into one of the biggest mixing bowls Aziraphale had ever seen, shaking the pot to encourage the rest to finish up. "If she was such a good mother, she might actually take my side every—er, sorry." He halted, looking away with a frown.

"No, it's all right," Aziraphale replied. "Really. I'm in training to listen to strangers' troubles. It's the least I can do for a friend."

"Look, it's just, clearly my father and I don't get along, and she doesn't like to get in the middle of it, which usually means I get left high and dry in the maternal support department," Crowley said with a sigh. "But I must sound so up my own arse to you, with your mom, well…"

"Oh. I didn't even think...it's all right, really. I don't mind."

He hadn't told Crowley everything, just that he had been three years old when his mother, Mariah, had died after complications giving birth to his sister Ruth. He remembered her laugh, deeper and more gravelly than expected, and the smell of lilacs from her perfume, but the memory of her face was lost to time. When he looked at the few photos his father had of her, he didn't recognize the smiling woman in them. Not in that instinctive, deep-rooted way that said _mother_ and _safety _and _home_. But when he said prayers, he always said hello to her, and hoped her soul was at peace.

"Still...ah, well, no one's ever accused _moi _of being the most tactful person in the room. Believe that honor goes to you currently. C'mon, let's go pick out a movie. You're going to love the theater."

"Of course there's a theater," Aziraphale murmured to himself, but Crowley caught his comment and laughed, balancing the giant bowl of popcorn as they made their way back downstairs.

The room was den-sized and cavernous, a large projector screen at the end faced by an enormous couch at the front and two rows of plush, theater-style seats. Equally impressive was the wall of row upon row of video cassettes in colorful paper cases. After setting down their snacks on the couch, they made their way over to peruse their options. Aziraphale recognized none of the titles, other than a recorded version of _The Nutcracker_.

"Soooo, I'm going to make some suggestions, since I've seen most of these at least once and no doubt you're overwhelmed by the options," Crowley said, dragging a finger over the VHS cases with a thoughtful hum. "Lessee, nothing too gory, nothing with too many tits…" After a few more moments of perusal, he grabbed three movies and showed them to Aziraphale.

"All right, we have Blade Runner, a personal favorite. Very artistic but a bit gloomy. Die Hard, a fabulous action flick but perhaps, ehhhh, a bit more appropriate for Christmas, depending on who you ask. And third: Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, a near-perfect comedic buddy flick about time travel in a phone booth and history and being in a band. Soft spot in my shriveled little heart for ol' Bill and Ted too."

Much to Crowley's delight, Aziraphale opted for Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure, and soon they were watching the wayward slackers' journey to find historical figures for their presentation or risk dire consequences. Aziraphale munched popcorn happily, not even minding when Crowley interrupted to explain certain references or laugh at his favorite parts.

There, in the cocoon of the dark room with Crowley, he forgot about his impending deadlines and the anxiety of budding friendship and the long-ignored weight of his father's imperative to help combat sin in this new place. Instead, he ate popcorn and risked glances at Crowley where he sprawled across the other end of the couch like he'd never sat in furniture before, and he was content.


	11. A confession

Aziraphale worked furiously on his studies for the next few days, taking breaks only to attend class and wolf down a meal here or there. During one of the few times he and his roommate were both in their room and conscious, Brian asked what his plans were for the extended Thanksgiving weekend coming up.

"Well, we don't really celebrate Thanksgiving where I'm from," Aziraphale explained as he stretched, his joints weary from several hours of sitting. "I suppose I had planned on trying to finish up this essay."

"Really? It's seriously the best holiday, other than Christmas, and Halloween I guess," Brian replied. "You get to eat tons of food, that's it. My mom usually makes all the hits: turkey, ham, stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole _and_ mashed potatoes, green beans, and like three kinds of pie. Sometimes my dad and younger bro and I go out and chuck a football around to work off the food coma."

Picturing the holiday spread, Aziraphale sighed wistfully. "That does sound rather lovely…"

"Well, you wanna come home with me or not?" Brian said with a laugh. "Home sweet home isn't as fancy as Crowley's place, but I think it's pretty great."

"I'd love to! Do I need to bring anything to dinner, or…?" Gabriel had sent him a bit of money in a letter he'd received yesterday that he could use. His father had been brief and to-the-point, as always:

_Dear Aziraphale, __I'm sending you these funds to support your work helping the lost sinners of your temporary residence. I hope you are well and have had success introducing some new souls to the glory and light of our Lord Jesus. __Love, your father_

"Nah, we always end up with way too much food. I'm sure my mom will send both of us home with leftovers. Let's leave Wednesday night, 'round 7 if that's OK. It's only, like, an hour away, and we can do some work when we get there and get settled in."

"That would be perfect. I think the pastor is doing his holiday sermon at 5:30 to accommodate all of the students heading home to see their families."

"Great!" Brian chugged some coffee from the mug on his desk and groaned. "Ugh, this is disgusting. Maybe I'll go grab some from the dining hall, you wanna come?"

"Yes, please. I could do with a walk," Aziraphale replied.

After dinner, they parted ways, and Aziraphale left Brian and headed over to the library to see Anathema. He hadn't seen her lately, too busy to do more than dart in to borrow a book or make a photocopy when needed, and he'd promised to tell her about his evening at the garden. (It was the least he could do, really, when it was due to her that the night had been such a success.)

The library was the busiest he'd ever seen it, full of students from different years with piles of books and papers who all had a slightly harried, haunted look about them. He even spotted a few sound asleep, using their backpacks or coats as pillows—some even with pen still in hand.

At the desk, Anathema was refilling a large urn full of coffee. It was next to a handmade sign decorated with stars and leaves that read "YOU CAN DO IT! COFFEE CAN HELP!" in cheery cursive handwriting.

"Coffee in the library? Well, I never," Aziraphale said jokingly. Anathema spun around at the sound, grinning when she saw it was him.

"Thought I could make an exception, since it's finals prep time and all. Which is why, I assume, you've disappeared lately. Have time for tea?" At his nod, she reached behind the desk, plopped a large silver bell on the counter next to the coffee, and jotted a quick note that said "RING BELL FOR HELP".

Aziraphale followed her to her office and sat with a sigh in his usual chair. It felt so nice to just sit and relax and not have to read or write or plan anything for just a moment. His eyes slipped closed and he breathed in the slightly incense-tinged air, until a hot mug was pressed into his hands.

Her own mug in hand, Anathema closed the door so it remained open just a crack, then sat across from him.

"I of course want to hear all about how your classes are going, but first, tell me all about the other night!" She took a sip of tea, and owlish eyes looked up at him from behind her round lenses.

"It was wonderful, I really can't thank you enough…" He described the gardens and the corpse plant in detail, including its awful stench, and detailed his first experience eating sushi.

"It sounds like you had a lot of fun. And did your friend Crowley enjoy his thank-you present? You've barely mentioned him at all."

"Oh, er, I haven't?" Aziraphale's collar suddenly felt tight, and he resisted the urge to yank on it to gain some breathing room. _The emotion of Crowley's voice as he thanked him...the sound of his name, his full name, on Crowley's lips… _"He had a marvelous time. Ah. Said to say thanks for the suggestion." He looked anywhere but at Anathema as he sipped his tea.

"Aziraphale…" she said gently, setting down her teacup and leaning forward. "Can I ask you something? It's not meant to offend, just...do you like Crowley?"

"Of course, he's a good friend."

"No, I mean, do you..._like_ him? As more than a friend?"

His eyes shot back to hers and saw only warmth, caring, and tentative concern. _No, no, no, you can't say anything...It's wrong, you can't let anyone know… _His stomach lurched, and he fought the nauseous unease that roiled through him. His breath became shallow and rapid, and his hand shook where it held his mug in a white-knuckled grip.

"Hey, it's all right...Aziraphale, just breathe." Hands took the mug from his, then returned to grip his fingers, now cold and clammy. "In and out, just like that...good." For minutes that felt like hours, Anathema kneeled next to him and held his hands and helped him breathe, until his vision cleared and his lungs worked and he could think again.

"That was a bit scary, wasn't it?" Anathema said in a quiet, gentle murmur, and he nodded as she sat back and released his hands. "Have you ever had a panic attack before?"

"No, I...I…" He clung to the arms of the chair and closed his eyes. Before he could stop it, before he could think, he choked out: "_Yes_."

"Yes, you have? How did—" Eyes still closed, he shook his head. "Oh. _Oh._"

He didn't want to see the look he knew would be on her face, the grimace of horror and disgust that would mar her kind features as she told him to get away from her, that it wasn't right, that he was _sick_ for thinking of Crowley that way.

"Aziraphale, please look at me."

He couldn't sit here forever, in her office, in the unseeing dark. The sick feeling threatened to overwhelm him again as he opened his eyes...only to see Anathema watching him with a serious look.

"Can I tell you something? And I want you to really listen, okay?"

"I'm sorry— " he babbled, but she cut him off swiftly.

"_Aziraphale_," she barked out, the unexpected tone silencing him instantly. "Just listen, hmm?" She sighed and gave him a gentle smile. "_It's all right_. I know you've been brought up with religion, and you've probably been told that what you're feeling is wrong, but it _isn't._ Love can never be wrong. It doesn't matter if you're a man who loves a man, or a woman who loves a woman, or a person who doesn't know who they love. You're far from the only one who doesn't fit the definition of what society says is normal. What matters is that you're a good person, who tries so hard to help others and share joy and listen to those who need it. What matters is you care what Crowley thinks of you and want to get to know him better. The only person whose opinion matters about your feelings for Crowley is _you_." She paused. "Well, and him, maybe, but that's beside the point."

"No, I can't just...be this way. If the church knew, if my _father_ knew, I'd be, I'd be cast out. And for what? A b-boy?" _A brilliant, fiery, caring boy whose eyes he didn't even know the color of yet? Who invited him to movies and didn't laugh at his ignorance?_

"I know. There are so many people out there who want to fear and hate what's different, what they've been told to shun. It's not easy to fight to be different, but…in the end, you need to decide if it's worth it. If _he's_ worth it to you."

"Oh, Anathema, it's just…I don't even know if he likes me, l-like _that_."

She laughed. "Well, that's something anyone who falls in love has to deal with. My boyfriend Newt took _ages_ to ask me out."

"I never realized you were in a relationship! How long have you been together?"

"Five years now, I think? He's a reporter for the city gazette, so he can work some pretty odd hours, but it's nice to have someone to come home to after a long day of work." She turned and shoved papers off her desk to uncover a framed photo. In the picture she handed him were herself and a tall, gangly man with short brown hair and glasses.

"You both look so happy," Aziraphale said as he handed it back.

"We are. I think he might propose soon, but knowing him he'll panic about the idea for a few months first."

The sudden ding of the desk bell cut through their conversation. "Be right out!" Anathema called loudly, then stood and turned back to Aziraphale. "Are you going to be all right? Do you want to stay in here for a bit? I can make some more tea."

"No, no, that's quite all right." He stood and straightened his clothes, smoothing the rumples with a nervous hand. "I should get back to studying. But Anathema...thank you. I've never told anyone about...that part of myself...before, and you've given me a lot to think about."

She patted his shoulder as they made their way to the door. "You have some big decisions to make ahead of you. But I'm so grateful you trusted me, and I'm always here if you want to chat. If I don't see you after the break, I'll come find you, even if I have to break into your dorm. So come check in, okay?" They laughed, but the steely look in her eyes told him she was serious.

The bell dinged again, and she rolled her eyes. "Must be out of coffee. Back to work, I suppose."

* * *

Several sleepless nights caught up with him, and Aziraphale had to repress his yawns all throughout the Thanksgiving service at the church. The dark, candle-lit room and the drone of Pastor Honeycutt's sermon on family and faith did little to rouse him.

When they knelt for silent prayer at the end of the service, Aziraphale clenched his hands together and prayed harder than he'd prayed in a very long time. _Lord, I need you to tell me what's right. I don't think Anathema knows you like I do, but I want to believe her. I want to believe that I can love Crowley, that I can be myself, and still love you as faithfully as I ever have._ Although no answer came, a tentative peace settled over him at the relief of having confessed his feelings to Anathema, and now to God.

During the ride to Brian's house, Aziraphale asked question after question about Brian's home and family to deflect his friend's inquiries about how he was doing. (He'd seen the dark circles and drawn look on his face when he'd washed up in the mirror. No wonder Brian thought he was ill.)

Thankfully, they soon arrived at Brian's house. It was a small, two story home with mum-filled flower boxes and a large, tree-spotted yard. The sound of barking began as they unloaded the car. As they made their way up the drive, a woman opened the door, allowing an explosion of fur to dart out, race down the lawn, and rocket up at Aziraphale. The dog's damp tongue licked at his jaw as he stumbled and tried not to fall over.

"Scruff, get down! Down! Come here!" Brian's mother grabbed the dog's collar, then held the door open. "So sorry about him, he's just excited to meet you. Aziraphale, am I saying that right?"

"Yes, and it's no trouble. I love dogs." Truthfully, larger dogs sometimes made him nervous, but Scruff looked like a benign, if energetic, beast.

"I'm so glad you could join us for Thanksgiving! We always end up with so much food—"

Brian sighed. "I know, mom, I told him."

"Well, let me give you the tour and show you where you're staying. Brian's room should be fairly clean, since I made him pick it up last time he was home."

Brian's home wasn't as sparse as his own, or as richly decorated as Crowley's, but it had a homey, lived-in feeling to it that put Aziraphale at ease. The living room contained worn but comfortable-looking furniture and stacks of dog-eared books and magazines near the television. The kitchen looked like a grocery store had landed in it, and Brian's mother shooed them out quickly, apologizing for the mess. Upstairs, she walked right past Brian's brother's room with a wave of a hand and a roll of her eyes. "I haven't seen Steven's room in weeks. I don't even want to know what a disaster it is in there. But here's the bathroom, and here's Brian's room!"

"Okay, thanks mom. We gotta do some homework tonight, so we'll hang here until dinner."

She peeked at her watch. "Your father should be home soon, so we'll eat around 8:30. I hope that's not too late? Roger had to finish up some things before the day off tomorrow."

After Aziraphale assured her it was fine, she left them to return to the kitchen. Brian collapsed on his bed with a sigh, leaving Aziraphale to set his things down and inspect his surroundings. Every wall was covered with band posters, and his desk was cluttered with cassettes, yellowed science-fiction paperbacks, and what appeared to be electronic parts. A small TV sat in the corner on a plastic milk crate, with a beanbag chair nearby.

"Your room is _awesome_," Aziraphale said, hoping he was using the right slang. Brian's offer of a high-five confirmed his success.

After clearing off the desk for Aziraphale to work, Brian plopped cross-legged back onto the bed with his books, and they worked quietly until Brian's mother called up the stairs for dinner.


	12. Win some, lose some

It was a very good thing that they'd finished off most of the snacks in their dorm room, because Brian's mother had attempted to send them back with enough leftovers in sturdy plastic storage containers to feed them for months beyond the two weeks of school left in the semester. After filling their small refrigerator until the door barely closed, they'd begun eating their way through the surplus. But Aziraphale wasn't complaining; after months of campus dining, Brian's mother's cooking tasted like gourmet cuisine (though it was also just delicious on its own merit). They left their door open, and Brian offered a container of cranberry sauce or turkey and gravy to anyone who passed by on their way back to their room.

Relishing the remaining downtime before the plunge into finals, Aziraphale found his Walkman and popped in some classical music as he finished unpacking. When he was done, he stretched out on his bed, feeling his body relax as he exhaled slowly.

He hadn't had much time to think about his conversation with Anathema over the Thanksgiving weekend, too distracted by the chaotic bustle of Brian's home. As Brian had predicted, his father and Steven had coaxed Aziraphale into tossing a football with them after the meal. The game had turned into a throwing lesson when they discovered that Aziraphale had never played football and wasn't terribly coordinated. By the time the sky had darkened, though, he could at least make a passable—if wobbly—toss to whomever was nearest.

Now, he replayed the conversation with Anathema for the umpteenth time in his head, trying to reconcile her words with what he'd been told over and over again, directly and not-so-directly, that it was wrong to feel this way about someone else of the male persuasion. That instead, he would grow up, graduate, follow in his father's footsteps, and find a nice, godly woman to be his right hand and help him create a family.

He still wanted that, mostly. But now, there were new desires competing with that bucolic image of the future.

He wanted to know what Crowley's thin torso felt like under the padded tips of his fingers. He wanted to brush those long red curls loose with his own fingers to see if they felt as warm and soft as they looked. He wanted to know what it felt like to be kissed by that sly, grinning mouth, what Crowley would _taste_ like…

But he never would. He might be able to find peace with his feelings, but acting on them was another story. That sobering thought shoved aside the memories of odd glances and hesitations, small things he'd noticed in Crowley's behavior when they'd been together. Aziraphale told himself that the chances were slim that Crowley was attracted to men, fine with others _knowing_ that he was attracted to men, and—most unlikely of all— in any way attracted to himself as anything more than a friend. A close friend. Yes, that's what they were, and that's all they would be.

Even if it broke Aziraphale's heart.

* * *

Somehow, it had slipped his mind that Christmas was so near. After his nutrition final (which he was fairly confident he'd passed), he took the bus downtown for a bit of shopping. He and his siblings didn't exchange gifts, but he found cheerful cards for each of them and his father at the drugstore, and grabbed one for Brian's family as well.

At the music shop, he found new tapes for Brian and Heather with help from Zedd. He'd visited with his friends enough now that the grey-haired proprietor pointed him in the right direction, picking two for each of them from the selections Aziraphale brought to the counter.

Bag in hand, he made his way to the plant shop and browsed for something for Anathema that would tolerate the low light in her office. He finally settled on a bird's nest fern in a terracotta pot adorned with blush-colored paint. The odd whorls and coils of the fern's leaves were unusual, an attribute he thought she'd appreciate. It wasn't as expensive as he'd thought, leaving him a bit of money left… and one friend left to find a gift for.

He had absolutely no idea what to get Crowley. What did one buy for a friend (yes, that's what he was, of course, that's _all _he was, his mind reminded him helpfully) who was wealthy enough to buy himself anything he desired? Aziraphale didn't have the skill to make Crowley anything, and he couldn't just get him a plant—that would be far too easy, and Crowley already had plenty of them.

An hour of browsing through shops later, he finally found something at the bookshop: a notebook for music composition. Its left-hand pages held regular lines for lyrics, facing right-hand pages with blank staff lines for jotting down musical notes. A thin gold ribbon was attached to mark the current page, a compliment to the notebook's creamy red-gold leather cover. He winced at the price, but let out a fond sigh and purchased it, along with some gift wrap and ribbon. Hopefully his father planned to send some more spending money soon, or he'd be living even more frugally for the foreseeable future.

He'd spent most of the day out, but it had been a welcome distraction from his nervous anticipation of his fencing tournament the next evening, an anxiety that returned when he was off the bus and back on campus. What if he lost? What if he _won_? Sitting quietly with a book wouldn't quell his nerves, so Aziraphale changed into his training clothes, forced himself to eat a solid meal, then headed to the gym for a light, final practice.

If nothing else, he at least had the Battle of the Bands to look forward to on Friday. He hadn't been to any of Crowley's shows since the night they'd met. Perhaps Brian would lend him some clothes again, so he could dress up for the occasion. Maybe if he looked the part, Crowley would notice him, see how well he could fit into his life, his hobbies… Aziraphale shook his head to clear the treacherous trail of thought from his mind. He finished stretching and began to move through the forms, now familiar after a semester of repetition. _Focus_, he reminded himself, and feinted and dodged and thrust until his mind was empty, his body was layered with sweat, and his breath came in winded gasps.

* * *

He was startled awake the next morning by the hard, punchy sound of a song that Brian presently informed him was "The Eye of the Tiger" from the movie Rocky. Laughing at Aziraphale's flailing limbs and wild eyes, Brian turned off the boombox and mimicked a boxing announcer's tone:

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's the day of the big tournament! In the right-hand corner, Mr. Aziraphale Fell, with the might of the Lord on his side. In the left, everybody else! Does Aziraphale have what it takes to outfence his opponents and seize victory?"

"I don't think fencing has those announcers," Aziraphale grumbled in reply, as he got up and rummaged for a sweater and trousers to wear to breakfast. He was too tired to also complain about the blasphemy.

"Shush, let me have my fun," Brian replied sternly, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes and waved his hand to him. "Fine, continue then."

"Nah, that's all I have for now. I've been up since seven finishing this essay, and I'm starving. Figured one of us might as well have a good start to their day."

At the dining hall, Brian piled toast and bacon and eggs on his plate and Aziraphale followed suit, albeit in smaller quantities. While he sipped a scalding cup of earl grey, Brian frowned and tossed a few pieces of his own bacon from his plate to Aziraphale's. "You gotta eat up, man. Gotta keep up your energy, y'know."

"I suppose," Aziraphale replied, scooping up some eggs and chewing them slowly. "Do you know if Heather is coming tonight still?"

"Last I heard, yeah. Hey, you're gonna do great, man. You've been practicing like, every night."

"I've never been much of an athlete. I don't think I like getting this much exercise," Aziraphale grumbled good-naturedly, smiling at Brian's laugh before popping a piece of bacon into his mouth.

The rest of the day went by in a flash. He filled out all of the holiday cards he'd purchased and wrapped each gift—using scissors to curl the ribbon like Judith had shown him ages ago—made some progress on his essay, and then it was time to head over to the gymnasium.

On the way to the locker room, he peeked into the main gym and saw more people than he'd expected waiting in the bleachers. Many were old enough to likely be parents, come to watch their children in the tournament, but there were a surprising number of students lounging with their friends.

The contestants had received copies of the tournament brackets before the Thanksgiving break. Aziraphale was scheduled for the third bout, so he changed into the breeches, chest protector, and jacket, and made his way to the side of the _piste_ to sit with the other fencers. He gripped his mask tightly, eyes scanning the crowd for Brian and Heather. Her bright hair was easy to spot amidst the sea of blonds and brunettes; she and Brian were chatting with the students sitting behind them. The sight of them was simultaneously reassuring and nerve-wracking.

The first bout was quick and decisive, with the required five points scored in just under a minute. The second was longer, but only because one of the competitors, a small, wiry boy Aziraphale had spoken to a few times during class, was able to dodge his larger competitor's attacks until she adjusted to his style of movement and won the bout with a score of 5-3.

And then it was Aziraphale's turn. He made his way onto the _piste_, working with one of his instructors to attach the cable to his épee and don his mask. A shrill whistle came from the bleachers, and he looked up to see Brian and Heather grinning and waving. He nodded to them, then took a deep breath and stepped up to salute his opponent, a dark-haired boy he'd practiced with a few times outside of class.

They stepped back to their en-garde lines, confirmed that they were ready, and began.

The three minutes passed in a blur. Aziraphale dodged and parried and thrust, remembering that the boy, Kevin, had a difficult time protecting his left hip and focusing his attacks there. After two minutes and fifteen seconds, his attention paid off. He'd done it: a 5-2 victory.

He could hear Heather cheering for him from the stands (in her trademark shriek that made her audible in the largest of crowds). He shook hands with Kevin and made his way to the locker room on shaky legs to splash cold water on his face and catch his breath.

His second bout was more difficult. The tall girl he faced was unsurprised to be fighting someone left-handed, and she was quick, parrying with seemingly easy movements of her long arms. Ignoring the pounding of his heart, Aziraphale took advantage of any and every opening. When the referee called "Halt!" at the end of the three minutes, somehow he had won, 3-2.

The longer he stayed in the tournament, the more anxious he became...but alongside the anxiety within him was an ever-so-small spark of hope that he might actually make it through to the end. It was an utterly alien feeling. Michael had done well at sports while in school, adept at tennis as he was at most things, and even Luke played basketball in the church youth league on Wednesday nights. But Aziraphale took after his father, more studious than athletically inclined. Wouldn't it be something, to be able to include a photograph of himself with a medal on a crisp ribbon around his neck in his next letter home?

This pleasant imagery distracted him from the remaining bouts, even as his conscience told him that too much pride would be a mind helpfully supplied Galatians 6:4 to assist: "_Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else" _and he resisted the urge to duck his head as if God was concerned with his prideful imaginings of victory.

Regardless, he had somehow made it to the final four contestants, and it was time for his next bout. If he could somehow win this one, he'd make it to the final bout and have a chance at victory. Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to sneak a look over to his friends; he kept his eyes on the wooden floor of the gym as he rolled his head on his tense shoulders and shook his arms loose. He hadn't been able to look at them at all since his last match, afraid seeing them might make him even more nervous.

In a blink, he was at the line, and the referee had called "Fence!" and the bout had begun. He couldn't hear the beeps, if there were any, from the electronic scoring box; he had no time to think; all he could do was dodge and parry and try to score a point on his opponent as he felt his own breath on his face inside the mask.

And then it was over...and he had lost, 5-2. In two and a half minutes, his dreams of victory had evaporated. He removed his mask, shook his opponent's hand, and made his way off the pitch in a daze. There were no medals, no ribbons for fourth place...but, he told himself as he wiped a sweaty curl of white-blond hair out of his eyes, he'd made it so close. Him, the bookish, quiet boy whose childhood classmates had called horrible names for his lack of athletic prowess.

Just outside the door, he was practically tackled by a red and black blur. Heather planted a kiss on his cheek and laughed. "Aziraphale, you were amazing! Congrats, dude!"

"Oh, thank you. I mean, I lost, but—"

"You stuck 'em with the pointy end, though, that's something."

Aziraphale froze at the sound of that voice, wholly unexpected and yet utterly familiar, then turned. Crowley, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, strolled up with Brian beside him.

"Crowley? You came?"

"'Course I did. You did tell me the date and everything, and I figured it'd only be polite, since you're coming to my little ol' show."

"Heather's right, you were great," Brian interjected, with a friendly slap to Aziraphale's padded shoulder. "All that practice paid off."

Aziraphale's heart swelled as his friends chatted about his bouts and helpfully reenacted key points with two pens Heather had dug out of her purse. He and Crowley watched, grinning.

"I'm, ah, sorry you came out here just to see me lose," Aziraphale said, turning to Crowley. "But thank you."

Crowley frowned slightly, his brows furrowing behind his dark glasses. "Hey, don't apologize, angel. You looked great out there. Er…hey, d'you all have any dinner plans? I'm famished."

"We were gonna go get tacos. You wanna come with?" Heather replied helpfully.

"Tacos sound great," Crowley replied.

Aziraphale excused himself for a quick shower, and they headed to dinner. To his surprise, Crowley offered to drive all of them in his Porsche. He tried to let Heather take the front seat, but she snorted and climbed into the back, so he was left up front with Crowley. Brian and Crowley chatted about music, with Heather interjecting now and then, and Aziraphale listened with a small, content smile on his face. These were his friends, and they had come to support him, win or lose.

And though the thought of being so close and yet so far from winning made his heart ache, the pain was lessened by the sound of cheerful arguing and laughter as Crowley drove breakneck through the streets to dinner.


	13. Just a hug

When Aziraphale and his friends pulled up outside the venue that Friday, the place looked packed to capacity. He supposed anyone from school who was done with finals was here to celebrate the brief reprieve before grades were posted, and anyone who wasn't (like him) was here to take a much-needed break from studying. Or had given up on it altogether.

Aziraphale fiddled with a safety pin on his outfit while they waited in line, trying to get it to sit just so. He'd borrowed Brian's boots again, a pair of jeans with ripped knees and rolled cuffs that fit almost too snugly around the curves of his thighs, and a red kerchief tied around his neck. A pair of black suspenders from his own closet that contrasted sharply with his white Oxford shirt, its cuffs rolled to his elbows, completed the outfit. And he'd been more than happy to sit patiently while Heather coiffed his hair and drew on eyeliner. It wasn't a look that he'd ever take to wearing regularly, but he was pleased to look like he belonged in this sea of smoke and leather.

They'd arrived well after the show was underway, as The Doomsday Option wasn't scheduled to go onstage until an hour or so after the first competitor. Inside was a whirlwind of sticky beer, stale cigarette smoke, and sweaty bodies pressed close. When Dave bought them all a round of drinks, Aziraphale hesitated, then took a cup; as he suspected, the drink tasted like water that wanted to be alcoholic but couldn't quite muster the strength.

Even at his slow pace of a sip or two every couple of minutes, Aziraphale managed to finish his drink by the time the next two bands finished their sets. After each song, Aziraphale and his friends debated, giving each band their own score out of ten. Most of the time they agreed, with a few exceptions: Heather and Brian both rated the second band highly—a group of women who scream-sang a bluntly sexual song called "Peaches 'n' Cream"—while Dave and Aziraphale rolled their eyes at each other good-naturedly at their friends' poor taste.

While each band set up or took down their equipment, a pale, dark haired woman with blue-tipped hair and a thick layer of dark eyeshadow stomped onto the stage.

"Hey you out there, still alive and kicking?" she yelled into the microphone, and the crowd roared and screamed, waving hands with chipped-paint black nails holding sloshing plastic cups of beer. Every so often, she'd reiterate the judging process: Each of the twelve bands featured tonight had won in semifinal competitions held throughout the year to make it here. They'd each get one chance only to win over the judges, who would announce the third, second, and first place winners at the end of the night.

The fifth band was decent, but they seemed far too smug to Aziraphale, as if they'd already won the competition with their song about restrictive parents. _Not that I don't relate a bit, but just you wait_, he thought with a sniff of disdain. _Crowley will knock you down a peg._

Finally, the emcee announced The Doomsday Option, and Aziraphale and his friends cheered riotously as Chuck, Steve, and Kyle made their way onstage to set up their equipment. Apparently, Crowley's late entrance was a routine part of their performances. The flair for the dramatic didn't surprise Aziraphale at all.

The band began a song with harsh yet peppy guitar, the _tsp_ of cymbals, and a heavy, thudding drumbeat—then Crowley slid onstage to a roar from the crowd. He'd traded leather for black jeans with ripped-out knees that still managed to cling to every part of him and an equally form-fitting red tank top. He grabbed the microphone from its stand and threw up a fist, shouting, "Hellllloooo, loves, we are The Doomsday Option and we've prepared a little medley for you. A little old, a little new, and part of our latest, Monster Hospital! So let's get on with it!" He flashed a wide grin at the crowd.

As Crowley began singing, Aziraphale could not look away. Crowley seemed utterly at home on stage, singing his heart out to the writhing, dancing masses of strangers that filled the auditorium. He sang the words to one song like syrup one minute, then snarled a harsh shout for another the next:

"_So come on honey, blow yourself to pieces  
__Come on honey, give yourself completely  
__And do it all although you can't believe it  
__Youth knows no pain ..."_

He flung his head back, exposing the pale column of his neck as he dragged a hand through his long, loose hair, and the crowd roared, just as captivated as Aziraphale. Up there on the stage Crowley shone like the sun, and they were gladly dazzled.

It reminded Aziraphale of a passage from Job that his father often quoted, especially when someone questioned divine will during one of the scripture discussion groups that met in the evenings at the church: "_The morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy_". Blasphemous though the thought might have been, he could find nothing but joy in that moment—jumping and laughing and sweating carefree beside his friends in a sea of people, listening to Crowley belt out words proclaiming the joy of anarchy and freedom and things forbidden. Later, he'd assuage his guilt with a bout of fervent prayer, but there would be time for that after this bright moment had ended.

"_Monster hospital, can you please release me?  
__You hold my arms down, I've been bad,  
__I've been bad, I've been bad!  
__I fought the war  
__I fought the war  
__I fought the war  
__But the war won!"_

They'd barely finished the final note when the crowd went wild, hooting and whistling and clapping as Crowley bowed with a ridiculous flourish.

Two songs later, Aziraphale was still grinning like an idiot—a grin that spread when he spotted a familiar red mop of hair making its way towards him through the crowd, slowing to return fond shoulder slaps and fist bumps from those who recognized him.

"So, what'dja think?" Crowley shouted as he and the rest of the band finally made it to them, accepting sweating plastic cups of beer from Dave and gulping them down.

"That was...you were _fantastic!_" Aziraphale yelled back earnestly.

"Oh, don't feed their egos," Heather shouted with a good-natured laugh and roll of her eyes. "He knows they killed it, he just wants to hear us say it." Steve and Dave tapped their cups in a mock toast, but Crowley just grinned and winked at her before downing the rest of his beer.

Apparently the last band was quite well-known, because everyone began dancing to their set. His second watery beer having apparently gone to his head, Aziraphale hardly even cared if Crowley saw his awkward attempts at dancing. Heather grabbed his hands and swung him round, and he twisted his hips to the music, and everything was a blur of color and sound.

They caught their breath as the final band hauled their equipment offstage and the judges followed the emcee back to the spotlight. The competitors stayed scattered within the crowd, the stage being far too small to fit all of them.

After spieling through closing remarks thanking the judges, the audience, the bands, and the sponsors, _finally_ the lead judge cleared her throat and began:

"In third place, Ophelia!" The female band with the raunchy song. They'd been decent, even if their song was a bit… prurient for Aziraphale's taste.

His heart pounded as a band they'd missed won second place (not the smug fifth band, he was pleased to note.) There was only one award left, and what if … but what if it _wasn't_ … Tensions seized him, and he and his friends gripped each others' hands in a cluster of anticipation. Beside him, he snuck a glance at Crowley and saw him biting his lip, any anxiety in his eyes hidden by his glasses. The judge cleared her throat again and then ...

"And the winner of this year's Battle of the Bands is … The Doomsday Option!"

The words were barely out of her mouth when the crowd let out a cacophony, and he and his friends added their shouting to the sound of victory, and a pair of arms wrapped around Aziraphale. He hugged back fiercely before he even realized it was _Crowley _hugging him. Then Crowley was gone, he and the band hauled on the shoulders of the mass of people and hoisted onto the stage to be presented with their award.

Crowley had hugged him, and the rising house lights were like flares in his eyes, dazzling him with wonder at this small miracle.

* * *

Heather and Dave spent the night at their dorm, nestled on the floor in a massive pile of spare blankets and coats and relaxed from a strong joint smoked on the ride back—a clear violation of policies that no one could be bothered to enforce with only a few days left before the semester break.

They all woke late that morning, or rather early that afternoon. Aziraphale's head felt fuzzy and achy, and his mouth was dry as sandpaper. He'd managed to fall asleep fairly quickly, but when he blinked awake around one o'clock, his mind instantly shuffled through the previous night, and he lay cocooned in his comforter, listening to the light snores from the others and thinking of the tight grip of Crowley's thin, muscled arms around him, a fleeting instant of pressure that he imagined he could still feel half a day later.

Once his friends finally woke, they all trudged to the dining hall for strong coffee (and tea) and greasy eggs. Far too many calories later, Aziraphale finally began to feel himself again. For the umpteenth time, both Brian and Heather offered to let him spend the holiday break with them and their families, but Aziraphale begged off their invitations as he had before. Following a long-honored family tradition, he'd already planned to volunteer odd hours at the local soup kitchen.

"But aren't you going to miss your family?" Brian asked with a frown. "I mean, of course you will, but you won't be too bummed to be here alone for so long?"

"Well, to be honest, it's going to be, er, nice and quiet for a change. I mean, not that you aren't all wonderful to be around—" He smiled gently at their feigned offense. "—but I'm looking forward to catching up on some reading. Or maybe revisiting the art gallery, there was so much I didn't get to see last time."

When Dave got up to get more coffee, Brian and Heather shared a glance and then Heather leaned in. "So, um, last night at the show, d'you, y'know, are you and Cr—" But as Dave sat back down, she fell silent, suddenly very attentive to the fresh cup he'd set in front of her.

Aziraphale blinked, eyes darting from Heather to Brian and back, but neither said more. "Can I—" he began, but Brian cut him off by plopping a small present on the table and shoving it over to him.

"Here, dude. Was gonna wait to give you this, but I know Heather and Dave have gotta get going soon. It's from all of us. You can wait to open it if you want, though."

"Oh! I didn't bring your presents, but we can go grab them after this? Then we can all open them together."

They made their way back to the dorm, and piled into the dorm room for an impromptu Christmas before his friends finally left for home. He apologized profusely to Dave for not getting him anything, but Dave just shook his head and waved him off.

Brian and Heather both loved their tapes. Brian had laughed when he opened his; he understood why when he opened the package Brian had handed him to see a cassette as well, a hard-to-find album of classical rerecordings by contemporary virtuosos. On their way out, Heather also tucked a twenty-dollar bill into his pocket, kissed his cheek, and told him to buy himself something nice with a wink, refusing to take the money back and leaping away from his attempts to return the bill. He hugged her tightly and told her to have a very merry Christmas, and then his room was quiet but for the late-afternoon serenades of birds outside and the gurgling of ancient pipes somewhere in the walls.

By the next morning, the dorms were empty, and only a skeleton staff remained to run meal services and the like for the few students like him who had stayed. He slept in late, dressed in his most comfortable, worn trousers and spent the day reading, curled up in a tatty armchair in the dorm common room in the gloomy brightness of a light snowfall.

Occasionally his thoughts wandered, and he stared unseeing at the pages on his lap. There was a particularly raw ache in his chest at spending his first Christmas ever away from his family. He'd written lengthy, cheerful messages to everyone in the cards he'd posted the week before, having been warned that international post was especially slow during the holiday season. The Christmas season was especially busy at home, with more frequent and more crowded services, coffee receptions and dinners, and even the beginning of marriage counseling for couples newly engaged over the holiday.

He pictured Michael, Judith, Luke, and Ruth with their father at the table for Christmas Day dinner, always after the final service in the early evening. The spread would rival even Brian's mother's Thanksgiving feast, the one meal of the year other than Easter that Gabriel forewent lectures on gluttony and indulged. He would carve the ham, and Michael's wife would help serve, taking the role of Aziraphale's mother since her death. The combination of rich food with the exhausting, non-stop activity of the day made everyone sleepy afterwards—except Ruth, who seemed to have boundless energy at all times.

He would give anything to be there, spending the holiday season with his family, but he knew the expense would stretch his father's already tight funds. Besides, he thought as he wiped a few stray tears from his face, he'd already arranged to call them on Christmas Day, right before their meal, and Pastor Honeycutt had invited him to help with the Christmas Eve service at the campus chapel after he'd finished his volunteer shift at the soup kitchen. He would be far too busy to be lonely so far away from his family. Yes, far too busy.

* * *

The next day, he and Anathema met downtown for an impromptu tea before she headed to the countryside with Newt. Once they'd found a place to sit and sip from their steaming mugs, he handed her the gift bag with the Christmas present he'd planned to give her after the break. She exclaimed in delight when she pulled the tissue and spotted her new plant.

"I absolutely love it! What should I call her? Virginia? Circe? Hmm, yes, I think Circe. She seems pretty fierce. Pretty, but fierce."

"Circe is perfect. I'm glad you like it," Aziraphale murmured, eyes crinkling in delight as he took a sip of chai. For all that the adults in his life made it seem like life after school was utterly serious, he could always count on Anathema to be exactly who she wanted to be. (If he was being honest with himself, he envied her that carefree nature. He'd need to add envy to his growing list of repentance.)

"I hope you don't mind that I got you a little something as well," Anathema said as she handed him a small, rectangular box topped with a rather frilly bow. "I know I probably shouldn't have, since I'm staff and all, but who's telling?"

"Oh?" He blinked in surprise and opened the box to reveal a gorgeous fountain pen, with a filigreed silver nib and an onyx barrel—the kind he'd always wanted to own. Tucked into the bottom of the box was a faceted glass jar of ink and a small dropper. "My goodness… Anathema, this is lovely. Are you sure… well, who am I to refuse such a thoughtful gift. Thank you."

She patted his shoulder in reply, and they sat in comfortable silence for a few cozy minutes, as they sipped their drinks and watched the light fall of snow outside the steamy-warm cafe.

"So, I don't mean to pry, but… any developments on the ah, boy front?" She spoke softly, her eyes owlishly large as she peered at him from over her mug.

The question startled him out of his reverie badly enough that he sloshed (thankfully tepid) tea onto his sleeve. He grabbed a napkin and began blotting at the liquid, blinking and blushing furiously at her simple question.

"Well, I, er, that is…"

"I don't know if I should take that as a no or a yes. You seem awful flustered if it's a no." She grinned at him, and he couldn't help but give a small smile back, reassured by the remembrance of her hands holding his as he fought through panic. Wary of being overheard, he leaned in and recounted the Battle of the Bands to her in a hushed tone. She squealed in delight.

"He sounds dreamy. You should bring him by the library some time so I can judge for myself."

"It was just a hug," he replied. "We aren't… _together_… or anything."

"I know, I know. It's just… I know it's a big risk, but I just want you to be happy. You deserve that, Aziraphale."

She meant well, but talking to her about the other night only made his chest ache. If it were a woman he was talking about, he wouldn't have to whisper, wouldn't have to hide how he felt…

"Will you see him over the holiday?"

"Well, I-I did get him a present, so I suppose I'll need to see him at some point. I hadn't really thought about it."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out. If it helps, I don't think it would be strange to meet up for coffee, just like this. But, y'know, different."

Or he could hide in his room and spend his break reading and pretending he didn't have unchaste feelings for a man with fire-bright hair and hips like razors. It would be much easier.

He told Anathema he would keep that in mind, and they passed the rest of their tea talking of family holidays and whether Newt would ever be brave enough to propose.

* * *

Aziraphale was still mostly asleep when the phone rang late the next morning. He blinked awake in the snowy gloom from the window at the piercing ring and lunged across the room for the receiver.

"'Lo?"

"Aha, I knew it! You're still on campus!"

Crowley sounded far too chipper for the hour, but his voice shocked Aziraphale into awareness.

"Crowley?"

"'Course. I was calling because I knew you'd be too polite to infringe on your friends' little family gatherings. Meanwhile, I have a whole house practically to myself and no one to watch cheesy movies with."

"Um…"

"So d'you, er, wanna come spend the holiday at my place?"

Aziraphale blinked, pulled the receiver away from his ear to stare down at it like it would offer some clarity, then put it back to his ear. "You want me to c-come_ stay_ with you?"

"I mean, I dunno, I just figured 'tis the season and all that…"

"I-I have some volunteer shifts at the soup kitchen downtown and here at the chapel on Christmas Day, and it's nice of you to offer—"

"C'mon, I can drive you!"

Aziraphale suddenly realized that Crowley's invitation might be about more than just helping _him_. He remembered the dismissive air of Crowley's mother, and the article about his father, and imagined Crowley eating Christmas dinner by himself in the large, sterile kitchen.

"If it's no trouble, then I'd be happy to."

After they settled that Crowley would pick him up the next morning, Aziraphale hung up the phone, the brief spark of fierce certainty burning in his chest snuffed out by the realization that he was about to spend _two weeks_ with Crowley. At his house.

He hopped out of bed and began packing.

* * *

Song lyrics: "Youth Knows No Pain" by Lykke Li, "Monster Hospital" by Metric  
Bible verse: Job 38:7


	14. A room of one's own

The Crowley home was lit up well enough that it could be seen from outer space, Aziraphale thought as Crowley drove up the winding drive, fast as the icy brickwork would allow. Massive red ribbons adorned the lamp posts and balustrades, ornamental golden orbs decked the nearby fir tree, and candles lit each window.

The Porsche slid down the curved incline to the open garage, almost overshooting the door, but Crowley gripped the wheel and managed to maneuver them safely inside, to Aziraphale's immense relief.

"Well, that was—You drive like a, a maniac, you know!" he spluttered out, feeling his heart settle from his throat to its usual place somewhere behind his ribcage.

"You say the nicest things," Crowley replied, infuriatingly calm as ever as he clambered out of the car.

The decor inside the house put the exterior to shame. Every surface contained some extrusion of fir branches, more of the same red bows and golden ornaments from outside, flakes of faux snow, decorative gifts… When Aziraphale stopped only a few feet into the hall to stare, Crowley patted his shoulder in empathy.

"I know, I don't know who she thinks lives here. Bunch of godless heathens we are, but you already knew that. C'mon, let me show you your room." He grabbed Aziraphale's suitcase and Aziraphale followed, first to the kitchen to grab sodas and some sort of tray of fruit and cheese from the refrigerator, then up two flights of stairs and several hallways. They stopped at the door of what he guessed was the eastmost room on the third floor of the massive house.

"I hope they at least listened to me and didn't totally… ah, shit, at least it's just a, eh, smallish tree or so." Crowley had opened the door to reveal a giant guest room that contained a cheerfully decorated Christmas tree in the corner, as well as a few strands of bow-adorned garland. The rest of the room was tastefully decorated in muted, dreamy grey-blues that contrasted with furnishing of dark, polished wood. The poster bed looked ancient—and absolutely decadent, with its many plump pillows and linens. He dug his toes into the plush oriental rug. Through the bathroom door, he could see a large ensuite in shades of grey-veined marble, shining brass, and spotless porcelain.

He padded over to Crowley, who had set down his burden and was fighting with a window sash. "I feel I need to say, I can't believe you livehere. If this is a guest room, I can't imagine what _your _room must be like." The words were out before he could think about the implication of what he was saying, but Crowley just stared back at him (perhaps blinking behind those infuriating lenses).

"Would you like to?"

"Would I like to …?"

"See my room?"

"Oh! I mean, I don't want to put you to any trouble—" But as he spoke, Crowley turned, gestured to him to wait, and disappeared back through the door.

Aziraphale stood, cheeks furiously warm, until he heard a key turning in a lock somewhere, and a rapping at a small door in the corner he'd barely noticed. Turning the old, solid key in its lock, he opened the door to see Crowley peering at him, mouth quivering in amusement.

"Hello there. Did I mention my room is next door?"

A laugh burst out of Aziraphale, and Crowley chuckled softly. "So my poor deluded parents apparently thought their only son and heir would be _very _popular and have oh-so-many friends, so of course they built a suite right next door for all those guests I don't have. C'mon in."

Crowley's room was a cross between Victorian royal lodgings and dark cavern. It was easily twice the size of the guest room. One long wall was entirely windows, small panes above a wall-length bench and bordered by velvety, blood red drapes that were pulled back to show the white expanse of the back lawn. On the same wall as the door, an ornate onyx fireplace was set with logs but looked unused. Every corner and part of the windowsill held plants—leafy ferns, twining ivy, and even the fig tree Crowley had bought that day they'd met in the plant shop. The only concession to the holiday season here was a single red-and-white stocking hung from the mantle.

"But where is your bed?" Aziraphale asked. Where he'd expected a large four-poster antiquity, there was… a mattress on the floor, with one pillow and one dark, knitted blanket.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. "Did have one, once. I just don't sleep that much. Sometimes I just conk out on the window seat. Prefer to keep it simple, just a blanket or two."

"That has to be terrible for your back."

"Nah, 's fine, see?" Crowley twisted, and his spine gave several loud _pops_. "Just, ah, needed to stretch."

"Hmph," Aziraphale replied, unconvinced. "Wow, that's a lot of posters."

The wall near the mattress, hidden from both of the room's doors, was decorated floor to ceiling in layers of band posters. A few Aziraphale recognized, thanks to his adhoc musical education over the last few months: David Bowie, The Clash, The Cure. One was even for The Doomsday Option, using the same series of photos from their tape case.

Crowley followed his glance. "Kind of vain, but well—"

"When you're as good as your band is, I think it's quite fine to hang up your own poster," Aziraphale interrupted. "You don't happen to have any extra, do you? Brian and I could use some more decorations in our room."

Crowley practically beamed at him, and his heart gave the tiniest flutter. "'Course, are you kidding? We have a ton of 'em. Happy to."

Aziraphale smiled back, then realized he was staring and quickly turned away. "Ah, so, are these all of your plants? Good to see the fig is doing well. Oscar is lovely—" His mouth snapped shut, heat blazing across his cheeks.

"Who's Oscar?"

"Well, I've heard plants do better if you talk to them, so I figured if I was going to talk to a peace lily every day, it needed a name. S-so I named it Oscar Wilde."

"My go—shit, sorry—my _goodness_, you're spoiling the thing rotten! Know why these lovely specimens _are_ so lovely? I whisper threats to them to remind them who's boss."

Aziraphale scoffed. "You, threaten a plant? I wouldn't believe it even if I saw you do it. You couldn't hurt a fly."

Crowley froze, and his mouth tensed into a thin line.

"Have I… said something wrong?" Aziraphale asked, reaching a hand out before he caught himself.

"No, 's all right, just… nothing. Nothing at all. Why don't you go unpack and settle in, and let's meet in the hall in, er, fifteen minutes? We can go check out the greenhouse, haven't been out there in ages and you'll like it."

"Crowley, really, if there's anything…"

"Just… bad memories, that's all. I'm fine."

Aziraphale hesitated, then nodded. "If you're sure. I'll just...go back through the wall."

At least that made Crowley's mouth twitch into a weak smile. Aziraphale returned to his room and quickly unpacked his few belongings, nibbling at the cheese plate as he set things in drawers and thought.

What was it Brian had told him, after the Halloween party? _"Just some drugs, some breaking and entering, that kind of thing." _He just couldn't see Crowley hurting anyone. Drugs, certainly—unfortunately—but violence? It seemed… unlikely. Unlike him. And whatever Crowley had done in the past, today he was here, giving Aziraphale a place for the holiday, treating him like he mattered. And he'd do whatever he could to return the kindness.

Somewhere, a clock chimed the half hour, and Aziraphale startled out of his reverie and hastily threw on his coat, gloves, hat, and scarf. Crowley was wearing a wool peacoat, but no other layers to protect against the chill. "You aren't going to put on a hat? Or gloves? It was absolutely frigid out there!"

"Can't find mine. Who knows where they ended up, probably in the car somewhere—"

"—here, wait a minute." Aziraphale jogged to his room and back, sweating a bit as he handed a scarf to Crowley. "You can have this one. I always bring a spare."

Crowley looked down at the scarf—a lovely grey knit from Agatha, the church choir mistress at home—then back up at Aziraphale, then wrapped it around his neck. "Thanks, angel. You ready?"

"After you."

* * *

When Crowley pulled up outside of the soup kitchen, Aziraphale turned to take his leave, but for some reason Crowley had turned off the Porsche and was getting out of the car as well.

"Um…" Aziraphale blinked, from confusion and the light patter of snowflakes into his eyelashes.

"So, er, I figured, if y'like, I could come see if they need more help?"

"Really?"

"'And his heart grew three sizes that day'," Crowley declaimed, striking a pose with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

Aziraphale snorted and rolled his eyes. "Very well, let's see if you keep that kind of energy after a few hours on your feet."

"That's the spirit!" Crowley slung an arm over Aziraphale's shoulder and led him up the icy steps.

Inside, men and women and a few families sat at long tables, spooning up soup and chatting with others. A few sat alone, eyes cautious and arm wrapped protectively around their food, still wearing their many winter layers despite the heat from so many bodies and the busy kitchen at the end of the room. Aziraphale led Crowley to the back, where the group getting ready to take their shift were amassed. No one asked if Crowley was registered to volunteer, but Pam, harried woman in charge, seemed relieved to see so many people here to help.

After a brief introduction of the different stations and assignments, she handed out aprons to everyone and directed them to their places. Aziraphale was given the first spot at the beginning of the line, handing a tray and plate and cutlery to each person. Pam had frowned at Crowley's sunglasses and sent him to wash dishes.

"Have you ever washed a dish in your life?" Aziraphale asked, half teasing and half curious. "First, you get the soap—"

Crowley interrupted by flinging a towel at his head. Aziraphale tucked it into his apron with a sniff and made his way to his station with only a little pride that he'd been chosen as one of the first to greet new arrivals.

For the next hour and a half, he cheerfully beamed at each person in line, asked their name, and handed them their tray. Some people seemed relieved, others ashamed, others defensive, but he didn't let his smile waver. This was the part of his faith he truly loved: getting to provide a little comfort and sustenance to those in need, to address each person as a person. They might lack a safe home or the funds for nourishing food for any number of reasons, but they were God's children like him, and this was the least he could do.

His feet were just starting to ache from standing when Pam patted his shoulder as she passed, leaning in to tell him what a wonderful job he was doing and shoo him off to take his break with the others.

Crowley was nowhere to be found, but one of the volunteers pointed him to the back door, which the smokers had propped open. Outside, under the eaves, Crowley was sprawled on a crate near a few others enjoying their own cigarettes, his hair pulled into a messy ponytail and sleeves of his ratty dark green sweater rolled to his elbows.

"You know, those things are terrible for you," he said, earning a few glares from the other volunteers and a grin from Crowley.

"Sure, angel, but they keep me away from other things I shouldn't be doing. How's it going up front? I'm soggy up to my eyebrows."

"Oh, it's been wonderful! I've met so many new people, quite down on their luck of course but also quite resilient. I used to help set up the coffee and pastries after church at home."

"Is that why you want to, go into service or what have you?" He waved the hand holding his cigarette in a vague movement.

Aziraphale blinked at his seemingly genuine curiosity. "Well, I do enjoy a nice latte and jelly doughnut from time to time, but yes, I like helping people. Especially people who... the rest of the world has forgotten."

"Hmph. Just between us, I think everyone's terrible, but agree to disagree, I s'pose."

"'All human beings are commingled out of good and evil'," Aziraphale replied.

"Bringing Stevenson into this? Isn't that a bit pedestrian for you? Not Kant or a good old bible verse?"

"I've been reading far more fiction since the semester ended. I'm not much of a science fiction fan, but who can resist the classics?"

The door opening startled them both from where they'd leaned in closer to one another as they talked quietly. Aziraphale could feel himself blushing furiously, and hoped Crowley thought it was from the cold, like the flush on his own face.

"Ahem, well, I guess I should eat before break is over."

Crowley stood and flicked his cigarette away. "Good idea. I'm starving."

When they finished their break, most of the volunteers went to different assignments, but Pam kept Aziraphale in the same spot. Crowley was now relegated to bussing tables, and Aziraphale kept an eye on him during the brief lulls.

Every time he snuck a glance, Crowley was chatting with someone, as he stood cleaning up plates or sitting and gesturing animatedly. He brought drink refills to an older couple that were staying at the shelter across the road. He hemmed and hawed and finally guessed that a little girl's drawing was a horse, then groaned in mock disappointment that it was, in fact, a giraffe (and told her, when she asked, that he was wearing sunglasses because he had laser eyes like a superhero and didn't want to burn the table). He sat for a good few minutes with a grizzled older man dining alone, one of those who protected their food, face somber as he nodded in response to whatever the man was saying.

"Your friend is good with them," Pam said as she walked by, and he turned to see her watching Crowley as he and the man talked. "I should've had him out here earlier."

"I'll see if I can get him to come back to my other shift," Aziraphale murmured in reply. For the rest of the day, he handed out more trays, welcomed more people, and watched Crowley, with an ache of fierce tenderness in his chest.

When their shift was finally over, getting to sit in the car was heaven. The sky was already dark and star-speckled; even though it got dark early this time of year, they'd stayed late to help Pam finish the dishes.

After each getting a quick shower and changing into pajamas, they met in the kitchen. Aziraphale was absolutely famished, and Crowley seemed the same, judging by the sandwich meat, cheese, bread, pickles, olives, and various other foodstuffs he piled on the island countertop. They didn't talk much, too busy assembling sandwiches and crisps on plates. When he took his first bite, Aziraphale groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward.

"I know, ish great. I could eat a horsh," Crowley managed to say around the wad of bread and deli cuts he was chewing. "I hate physical labor."

Aziraphale swallowed his mouthful of sandwich and took a gulp of water. "It's good for you. You know, I thought I would hate my fencing course this semester, but I actually rather enjoyed it."

"In that case, you can join me tomorrow morning for my daily run," Crowley said flatly, face deadpan. Aziraphale snorted and took another bite of his sandwich.

After they'd slowed down a bit, Crowley made popcorn and they collapsed on the couch, shoulders brushing as they waited for the VHS tape of _Ladyhawke _to rewind.

When the film begins, Aziraphale watches as The Mouse escapes from the Bishop of Aquila's dungeons, only to be recaptured and then rescued by the former captain of the guards, Navarre, played by an actor with hair as blond as his own and a thick, square jaw.

He glances over at Crowley, who's as rapt as him at the story, even though by his own admission he's seen the film a dozen times already.

When the identity of the mysterious woman is revealed to be Isabeau, Navarre's true love, Aziraphale actually gasps aloud and turns to Crowley, who grins at his reaction. "I thought so!"

"Ah, yes, Michelle Pfeiffer. If only!" Crowley declared to the image of the woman on the screen, with a regretful sigh and a dramatic press of his hand to his heart.

At the end, when Isabeau leaps into Navarre's arms, Aziraphale wipes away a few tears of happiness. He's never cried at a film like this, but he's never seen a film like this before. He swiped the back of his arm across his eyes, sneaking a glance at Crowley in hopes he hadn't noticed… but no such luck. Crowley smiled back fondly at him and jostled him with an elbow.

"Oh hush, it's beautiful," Aziraphale grumbled at him, cracking a grin. It turned into a huge yawn that he tried to smother with his hand. It was late, and it had been a long day. He could use a nice long bath to soak away his aches.

After they both trudged upstairs, chatting absently about _Ladyhawke_, and said good night, Aziraphale did just that. Filling the tub full of steaming-hot water, and a dash or two of the bath salts he'd found, he slipped in, inhaling the scent of eucalyptus and lavender with a contended groan.

It was a blissful privilege just to have his own bathroom. On campus, there were no baths, just showers that sometimes turned icy cold or scalding hot, and at home, he'd shared just the one bathroom with his entire family. He couldn't imagine having this kind of luxury at his fingertips whenever he wanted, but struggling against it, as Crowley seemed to do.

He dozed, letting the heat and weightlessness of the water ease his aches, until his fingers and toes started to prune. When he was dressed and ready for bed, he padded back into his room, drawn to the window by the bright light of the moon. He padded over and peered up for a moment, thinking of Crowley just one room away. He wondered if Crowley was fast asleep already, sprawled across his mattress—because somehow, he could picture the man as an utterly restless sleeper, all twitching and sighing and jostling—or if he was curled up under his thin blanket on the window seat, still and calm like the quiet night.

As he slipped into his own bed, sighing in pleasure at the plush cocoon of blankets and pillows, he imagined what it would be like to sleep next to someone he wasn't related to. Someone he could curl around like he curled around his pillow now. Someone like...Crowley.

* * *

_Author's notes:_

The quote from their smoke-break discussion is from The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.

If you haven't seen the move Ladyhawke, starring Matthew Broderick, Michelle Pfeiffer, and the late, great Rutger Hauer, do yourself an enormous favor and find a copy of it. (Not sure if it's on streaming anywhere, but I have the Bluray because I'm a big ol' nerd.) If you love The Princess Bride, Willow, or pretty much any '80s fantasy-action movie, you'll love it.


	15. In his eyes

The next few days were an indulgent series of lazy lie-ins, followed by rich breakfasts of pancakes and crisp bacon waiting for them in the kitchen. (When Aziraphale asked, Crowley nonchalantly mentioned that his parents employed a part-time cook as well as a housekeeper. Aziraphale had blinked back at him in surprise, changing the subject when he'd realized Crowley was embarrassed.)

They wandered the grounds of Crowley's home, which included an archery range (targets put up for the season), an iced-over duck pond, and the truly wondrous greenhouse, full of native and tropical species, that offered a humid respite from the winter chill.

While they warmed up, Crowley walked him through the different sections of the garden. Apparently, it was one of the few activities his father occasionally joined him in, pruning and tending the plants alongside his son.

"Not as much lately, but…" Crowley shrugged. "Those over there are his." He pointed Aziraphale to a massive rosebush bearing gorgeous, fragrant blooms the color of fresh blood, defying the stark, cold landscape outside.

Later, he and Aziraphale even attempted to take advantage of a decent day-old snowfall with a good old-fashioned snowball fight. Aziraphale's first throw had gone far wide of Crowley, who balled up his own snow with a predatory grin… only for his missile to go sailing an arm span wide of Aziraphale. Their next few attempts were no better, and soon laughter made their aim even worse. Finally Aziraphale, breathlessly doubled over with laughter, waved his scarf in the air as a white flag of parley.

They stumbled inside and shed their winter layers, making giant mugs of rich hot chocolate smothered in marshmallows. Aziraphale caught Crowley seemingly watching him through fogged-up glasses as he sipped from his own cup and met his gaze as long as he dared before hiding a sigh by sipping his own drink.

* * *

"Ugh, I hate this place. It smells like feet and there are too many people," Crowley grumbled as he fought for a parking space at the edge of the shopping mall's massive pavement lot. "But if I don't get presents for everyone again this year, my mother will drown herself in her wine glass and my father will lecture me and I'm _too _tired for that again. Ha!"

He zipped the Porsche forward, ignoring the honking minivan that had been waiting for the spot. The driver, a mustached, balding man, leaned out his window to berate them, but Crowley flipped him a middle finger and strode away, leaving Aziraphale to apologize profusely and hurry after him.

"Crowley! That was very rude! You shouldn't—he might come after us!"

"Not with his kids in the car, he won't," Crowley said with a shrug, cramming his hands into his pockets. "'Sides, we were both there. Not my fault my lovely little set of wheels was faster. C'mon!"

He grabbed Aziraphale's hand, the heat of the sudden contact seeping into Aziraphale's skin through their gloves, and they ran across the parking lot to stay warm. Inside, it seemed as if the entire city had crushed into the space in search of presents for their loved ones. This shopping center was much bigger than the one Aziraphale and his family usually visited, when one of the children needed new trousers or dress shoes. On very rare occasions, they'd make the longer trip to the larger regional shopping area. It had been loud and odorous and far too bright, like this place.

"D'you need to get anything while we're here?" Crowley asked, and he tore his attention back from the neon signs and burbling tiled fountains and greasy smells of fried food.

"Oh, no, but thank you. I already sent my family their cards. I'll just tag along with you."

They stopped at the food court for slushy drinks that gave both of them brain freezes, then wandered from store to store. He wasn't sure what Crowley was looking for, but he was happy to follow. One of the stores blasted thudding music from its dimly lit interior, mohawked mannikins in leather and chains displayed in the window, and Crowley's face lit up. He chewed his straw for a minute with a sharp-toothed grin.

"Let's go in here. I think we need to get you some new clothes," he said, hauling Aziraphale into the store. He'd taken a few steps before he coughed and turned back around. "Er, not that there's anything wrong with—I mean—you borrow Brian's stuff."

Aziraphale smiled gently at his attempt. "I know what you meant. But I don't know that I… that is, I don't exactly have much pocket money left."

"No,no, none of that. 'S on me. Ah, what about these?" Crowley grabbed a pair of black and red checked suspenders. "You can't tell me these aren't perfect for you."

"They are quite nice," Aziraphale admitted reluctantly. "But, Crowley. I don't need you to buy me things. You, you know that isn't why I came with you, right?"

Crowley grabbed his hand and set the suspenders in it, curling Aziraphale's fingers around them. "Look, I'm a shit friend, okay? I completely forgot to get you anything for Christmas, or I ran out of time or...let's just say, I'm terrible at this and it's much easier if I surprise you with a shopping trip, while I also happen to be getting presents for my parents. And then I'll know it's stuff you like."

"You're not terrible at this, Crowley, and I'm sure I'd love anything you picked out for me," Aziraphale replied. "But, if you're sure."

They spent the next half hour looking through the store's selection of band shirts, purposefully tattered denim, and spiked jackets. After several trips to the dressing room, Aziraphale had to pull the nose-ringed sales girl aside while Crowley was busy and request that whatever size Crowley asked for, she would bring him a garment that was at least two sizes larger. But eventually, they left with three outfits, including the suspenders and a sturdy pair of Doc Martens, the price tag of which Crowley had refused to let Aziraphale see. He'd even covered Aziraphale's eyes when the total rang up on the register, and hissed the sales girl quiet when she tried to read the amount aloud.

They meandered for a while longer before finding a place to rest on one of the benches surrounding an open area with a fountain, the bottom littered with coins and bottle caps. A gaggle of girls whispered as they passed, eyeing Crowley in his tight, dark jeans, long wavy hair, and dark shades with clear appreciation at the sight. Noticing, he grinned and nodded back, lifting his hand in a lazy mock salute and sending them into blushing fits of giggles.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "What about your parents? Should I get them something?"

Crowley snorted, pulling his attention back. "Oh, you don't need to worry about them. I usually just get dear old Dad a nice pair of tie and cufflinks. Mom's a bit trickier, but perfume usually does the job. 'S hard to shop for people with more money than Croesus."

"You don't say," Aziraphale replied drily.

"Why, angel, you didn't get little old _me _a Christmas present? When I'm the spawn of Satan and an unholy abomination and all that?"

"If you're the spawn of Satan, then I'm Bob Hope."

Crowley gaped at him. "Was that a _pop culture _reference?"

"Maybe."

"Will you tell me what I got?"

"Absolutely not."

"Hmph."

Crowley sulked a few seconds, then his face lit up with a wicked grin. "I have an idea, and you're going to hate it, but listen: let's get my parents the _worst_ gifts. Something absolutely ridiculous."

"Like what?" Aziraphale asked, suspicion blooming.

"Have you ever been to one of those As Seen on TV stores?"

"No, but I assume they sell things seen on TV?"

"Well, yes, but, things like beer helmets and extendible claw arms and the most ridiculous plastic garbage contraptions."

"Oh, that sounds...ah, awful, actually."

"C'mon, let's go check it out." Crowley grabbed his hand again and maneuvered him through the press of shoppers upstairs to the store on the mall's second floor.

Inside were devices that looked like a school science fair gone wrong. Screens played commercials for each product, behind a display stand where shoppers could try some of them. There were marker-like products for removing scratches from leather, a machine for scrambling eggs, and some sort of horrifying mask that claimed to improve one's skin elasticity through minor electrical shocks but seemed more likely to be a surreptitious torture device.

Crowley had to be talked out of buying a ThighMaster for his mother, instead settling for some sort of automatic vegetable peeler. Finding something equally inane for Crowley's father took a bit longer, but Aziraphale spotted a perfectly ridiculous gift: some sort of vacuum hair trimmer called the Flowbee. When he pointed it out, Crowley immediately snatched one off the shelf.

They wandered to a few more stores after that, including a brief glance in the bookstore, but Aziraphale resisted the urge to buy anything. Back at Crowley's house, there was a library full of books that he could read or borrow whenever he wanted. (The fact that they belonged to Crowley had very little to do with it, he told himself. He was getting rather good at convincing himself of things, when he tried very hard.)

It was getting dark outside when they staggered back to the Porsche and drove back. Aziraphale's feet ached as they made their way into the house and dropped their bags. In the kitchen a fresh pizza, laden with pepperoni, green peppers, black olives, and sausage, was waiting in the refrigerator, and Crowley popped it into the oven. He stared, naked longing on his face as he watched the cheese begin to bubble.

"It really isn't going to cook faster just from you staring at it, you know, unless you have laser eyes or something," Aziraphale quipped. "And even if you did, those sunglasses wouldn't help much."

He paled as he realized he'd broached the subject, although Crowley just scoffed and turned away.

"Ugh, fine, I'm going to grab a shower while this cooks then. D'you need a clean pair of pajamas? I have some flannel bottoms you could borrow. Probably a bit long, but otherwise they should fit."

"Oh, yes, that would be lovely. I can just wear one of my new shirts." He grabbed his bags and followed Crowley upstairs. Crowley rifled through a drawer in his room for a few minutes before finding a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms and handing them to Aziraphale. Thankfully, they appeared large enough to fit his much-larger proportions.

He went to his room and showered, sighing under the steamy water. Being in close proximity to Crowley for so long was tortuous—and certainly not making his vow to treat Crowley as simply a friend any easier. A friend who seemed to relish his company almost as much as he did Crowleys', if not in the way Aziraphale thought about. Prickling heat rippled across his skin at brief, vague imaginings of Crowley reciprocating his affection with a caress to his cheek, thin lips pressed to his own…He finished his shower in teeth-chattering cold water to clear the fantasy from his mind.

After ripping the tag from his new Clash shirt, he pulled it on, along with clean boxers and Crowley's pajamas. The sight of himself in the wall mirror gave his pause. Normally he only wore t-shirts as a base layer below a proper collared shirt, because they clung to curves and thickness he preferred to hide behind sleeves and vests and jackets. He felt practically naked now, but gave himself a stern glare in the mirror. Plenty of people of all shapes and sizes wore short-sleeved shirts every day. It wasn't as if he was showing a bit of skin for any purpose other than practicality.

If anything, the tight fit of the pajama pants was more concerning. He swiveled to look at his rear in the reflection. Nothing too shocking or skin-tight, just...tighter than he was used to, and ridiculously long on him. He bent to roll the cuffs, and sighed. It wasn't like he had anything else to wear, given his light packing for the semester in general had limited his options; he'd have to do laundry in the morning. Did Crowley even know where the laundry room was in his house?

Giving himself another quick look, he rolled on a thick pair of woolen socks, then made his way back to the kitchen, where Crowley was practically plastered to the oven door watching the pizza finish baking. Finally, the timer beeped, and he grabbed an oven mitt and retrieved his cheesy prize, setting it to cool on the kitchen island.

Aziraphale went over the fridge and peered into its depths for beverages, bending over to look at the selection on the lower shelf. "Would you like a soda, or just water?"

A quiet, choked noise behind him made him straighten, but when he straightened, Crowley was still inspecting the pizza, and only a faint hint of flush lit his cheeks when he turned. "Soda, thanks," he said, wandering away for plates and something to cut the pizza with.

Aziraphale grabbed two sodas and sat, watching Crowley for the cause of the sound he'd heard, but his friend was focused on the food. He heaved a gooey slice, dripping cheese, onto Aziraphale's plate, then his own.

They each tried to take a bite of their food, but the heat burned Aziraphale's tongue and fogged Crowley's glasses, making him swear and swipe at the condensation with his sleeve.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm?" he replied, busy blowing on his pizza to help it cool.

"If the steam is troublesome, you don't...have to wear your glasses? I-it's fine if you want to take them off."

Slowly, Crowley set his pizza back on his plate, then went still, his shoulders ever-so-slightly hunching defensively. "I...don't usually take them off around anyone," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean...did something happen? To your eyes?" Aziraphale bit his lip, furious at himself for just blurting out the question he'd wanted to ask since they'd met. "Sorry, I shouldn't pry. It's all right if you—"

He froze, inhaling sharply as Crowley sighed and reached up slowly, his fingers curling around the stem of the right side of the glasses. Aziraphale could see the slight tremble of his fingers and began to reach out, but Crowley shook his head. "No, 'm fine."

After a deep inhale and a slow, shaky exhale, Crowley pulled the glasses away. His gaze was trained on the table, eyes hidden under long lashes until his gaze flicked up at Aziraphale at last.

"Heterochromia," Aziraphale murmured. Crowley's eyes were two different shades. His left was golden, a rich, buttery color that reminded Aziraphale of wildflower honey. The right was a medium brown, shot through with brighter strands that made it shimmer warmly. He stared, his mouth a thin, terse line, as Aziraphale looked, then anticipated his next question.

"Wasn't born like this. They were both lighter." His voice was guarded and quietly angry in a way Aziraphale had never heard it.

"What happened?" Aziraphale murmured, watching the shift of his gaze as he blinked and looked back, pupils contracting to adjust to the brightness of the kitchen lights.

"I got into a fight, years back. High school classmates from the posh private school my parents insisted I attend. We'd never gotten along, all the way through middle school. Always getting into arguments, trying to show each other up, back when I still cared what my parents thought of me and tried to get good grades." Crowley sighed, closing his eyes and wiping a hand down his face before opening them and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, as if the weight of his story was resting on his shoulders.

"This time, I kissed his girlfriend. Ermph, might have done a bit more than just kissing... anyway, he found out about it. Wasn't like she didn't kiss me back, but he didn't see it that way when he saw us. He and the goon squad jumped me behind the gym, beat me senseless. Mostly bruises, but my eye...well, let's just say it was pretty damn easy for my father to sue them, their parents, and the school with just a few photos. Not that I wanted him to, would have rather handled it m'self, but at least I got to leave that shithole."

It was a lot to process. It sounded like Crowley had certainly played his part, but beating someone to the point of permanent injury was never called for. No matter how angry he got, Aziraphale could never do something that viciously violent, and it was a painful reminder that the world contained people who relished inflicting such brutality.

He cleared his throat, "So the glasses, do they help you see?"

Crowley shook his head, took a bite of pizza, chewed, and swallowed. "No. I can see fine, even with 'em on, except when I'm really knackered. I just...I just got tired of people staring. Sure, Bowie can pull it off, but I've already got all this—" he gestured up to his fiery red hair "—going on, and my dad and all, and I'm not a world-famous rock star. Just little old me. I've worn dark glasses ever since. After my father's legal spree, wasn't like my new school was about to say no."

Aziraphale didn't know what to say. He wanted to reach out and take Crowley's hand, or cup his face, or kiss the lids of those unique, beautiful eyes, but he couldn't. A friend wouldn't comfort a friend in such a clearly non-platonic way.

"That's terrible," he managed to say, fumbling instead for the right words to ease the tension still lurking on Crowley's face. "I'm so sorry, Crowley. You can put them back on, if you like, but...you don't have to. I think they're wonderful. They suit you."

Crowley picked at the glasses for a moment, not meeting Aziraphale's eyes. "You don't need to pity me, either."

"I don't. Well, not exactly. You did, er, steal his girl?"

Crowley's mouth quivered in mirth, and he flicked a grateful gaze at him.

"Thanks for that." He returned their glasses to their usual resting place atop his rather beaky nose. "I know it's stupid, but…"

"No, it isn't! You look great, with or without them, I...er, very mysterious. Yes. They make you very mysterious." Aziraphale knew he was babbling, so he shoved his pizza into his mouth to stop the torrent of words.

Crowley snorted, shoving the glasses up with his thumb, and picked up his own slice, waggling the fingers on his free hand. "That's me, Crowley the enigma."

_You have no idea_, Aziraphale thought.

"I hope that—that bastard got expelled," he replied, not even wincing at the curse, and it was worth it for the surprised skyrocketing of Crowley's eyebrows up to his hairline.

"Such _language_," he chided, his affront belied by the wide smile that cracked across his face.

"Well, the situation calls for it," Aziraphale replied pertly, warmth spreading through him as he took a bite of his cooling pizza.

"I'll toast to that." Crowley raised his can of soda for a toast. "Cheers to not letting the _bastards_ get us down, hm?"

Aziraphale brought his own up to tap against it. "Cheers."


End file.
